You'll Know When You Have Kids of Your Own
by metameric1
Summary: What goes around comes around...Daria and crew are parents of teens the same age as when the original series started! Let's see how far I get with this...
1. Chapter 1

_A/N:This story continues the thread started in Ah, Hell. It picks up roughly sixteen years after Daria and Trent get married, and they are raising their family in Boston, in the same loft and building that took shape in the concluding chapters of the last tale. Much has happened in those years; Jake, for one thing, has passed away, finally succumbing to his poor cardiac health. He did live long enough to hold all his grandchildren, which included Jane's son Nicky, since he had long considered her as his other daughter. Quinn has two daughters as well, Saraswati and Mira, the youngest of the grandchildren._

 _Daria named her second child Jacob, after her father. She and Trent are trying their best to raise thinking and independent children. Her firstborn, Ani, is named after her favorite recording artist, Ani DiFranco._

 _Usual disclaimer applies. Daria and related characters are the intellectual property of MTV and whomever has legal or has acquired legal title to them. This is Fanfiction, written only for enjoyment and fun; nothing of value has been exchanged in its creation._

 _ **You'll Know When You Have Kids Of Your Own**_

 _ **Chapter 1**_

 _ **Busted**_

The worst part of it was that Mom didn't yell at me.

After she made sure that Ani was okay, she kind of turned away and went into the bedroom and closed the door. I was pretty sure- no, I knew-that she was crying. Mom never cries.

Dad calmly brought the case over and put the pieces into it. "I think you know that that was kind of a stupid thing to do, Jacob." He glanced at the bedroom door. "After Mom has a chance to calm down, I'll talk to her. But you know…" he stopped, shaking his head. "It's a good thing for you that your sister's okay."

I nod, and open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Ani is glaring at me and rubbing the top of her head.

"El Kabong, my ass," she snaps. I know she wants to whomp the tar out of me but Dad being there makes her stay away from me. Part of me is glad, because Ani recently got her black belt and she does have a bit of an anger issue. I mean, I know that I can hold my own when we spar, but this would be different. Sensei says that you should use your opponent's anger against them but Ani is well aware of that, and I know she would control it. She doesn't get sloppy when she's mad, she gets kind of hyperaware and goes all _Trinity_ on your butt.

Another part of me knows I would deserve whatever she'd throw at me.

Dad waits until Ani calms down and then goes to check on Mom. He puts the ukulele case down on a table, where it sits like a little coffin.

Ani's leaning against the wall, arms crossed tightly. "You know why Mom is upset, _Genius?"_ she asks quietly.

I don't say anything. Mom and Dad expect us to understand how to take care of musical instruments, but this was kind of an accident. I was just pretending that I was gonna whack Ani over the head with the eight-string ukulele that Mom had just finished with. I had grabbed it out of its wall holder and had a two-handed grip on it, bringing it down quickly when Ani stands up.

The thing was pretty light, and there was a loud crack when it connected with my sister's head. Mom came out when she heard that. I don't think I'll ever forget that look of horror on her face.

Ani looks at the case on the table and sighs.

"Daddy bought that for her the night he proposed to her," she says quietly, the anger gone.

* * *

Walt, the luthier that works on all of Mom and Dad's acoustic instruments, studied the remains under a bright light on his workbench.

"I dunno, Jake," he sighs. "Repairing this would probably cost more than replacing it. The top, neck and headblock are still okay, surprisingly enough; only a couple of badly stressed areas near the base of the neck attachment. But the rest of it is pretty well wasted. I'd have to make a new set of sides, which means making a set of bending patterns, as well as a body mold from scratch. The edge binding would have to be removed without damaging the top, which would take hours, and all of the top lining will have to be cleaned off or replaced in order to attach new sides."

He pulls a rolling cabinet over, holding the oldest computer I've ever seen. He picks away at the keyboard for a long time, so I pick up a broom and start to sweep the floor as I wait. He glances up and grins a little.

"Sheesh, Jake, you sure know how to pick 'em," he sighs. "Custom made, most likely; or it's older than I thought. doesn't look like any of the current Kamaka _Taro Patch_ models. Definitely made before Kamaka moved their shop in Honolulu, probably in the 1960's. I'd bet that the body molds don't exist any more. Besides, this one's made with AAAA grade curly Koa, so I'd guess that at current market you're looking at about three hundred dollars just for the wood to make a new back and sides."

Oh, man. "So how much is a new eight string ukulele?"

"Of this quality? I'd guess at least three thousand. The value of this one, though, probably more. It was signed on the inside by Sam Kamaka himself. They probably don't get many requests for these, so it figures that one of the company owners would take it on."

"I am so screwed," I moan.

Walt pulls down a big round disc of some kind of heavy plastic, and sets it down on his bench. He takes the spine of the ukulele's back and presses it lightly into the disc, and moves the worklight so that it illuminates the backside of the piece of wood. "This radius dish matches the curve of the back. That saves a couple hundred bucks, since I'd have to have a matching one machined." He turns to me. "Your dad tells me you're really good at making stuff."

Walt takes me on as kind of an apprentice and janitor. I spend the next three months- pretty much the whole summer- cleaning his shop and fixing odd machines, and in return he shows me how to rebuild Mom's ukulele. I fork over two hundred bucks for a couple of scuzzy looking Koa boards, which he insists is a bargain. He sent a few scraps of the original wood to a dealer, who sells me the boards at a discount because they were too small to make guitar sides and backs. I had my doubts, but after I ran them through the planer, resawed and then thickness sanded them, I was amazed.

Koa is a Hawaiian wood, really rare and prized for its grain and luster. The new boards yielded pieces that were a really close match to the original for pattern, but they were much lighter in color. Walt tells me that it'll darken over time, but that we'd have to stain it slightly so that it doesn't look weird.

"Don't throw any of the scraps away," he says, bringing a cardboard box over. "You can make jewelry out of the littlest bits, and inlay and bindings from the rest." Looking in the box, I see that he's kept every little fragment of the original instrument in there. Even the sample scraps that he sent for matching were returned.

Under Walt's watchful eye, I make a side bending form and a body mold from blocks of scrap plywood and glue. I use the ukulele's top to get the curves laid out, and get it right on the third try.

A month of painstaking work later, I'm finally buffing out the lacquer. Walt's stain on the new wood sides and back are a really close match to the original. A final setup with new strings, and I put the Taro Patch back into its case and take it home to Mom.

* * *

 _Hi'ilawe._ It's the first song she played on it when Dad gave it to her all those years ago, and it's the first song she plays after I gave it back to her after the restoration.

Mom plays it beautifully, and then looks at the instrument in her hands. Standing, she puts it back into it's wall holder and then turns to me. For a long time, she says nothing, eyes distant as she recalls a memory obviously precious to her.

"Thank you, Jake." She smiles at me, and it's all worth it.

"Walt said that Jake did the work himself, except mixing the stain to color match the reconstructed areas."

"If I didn't see it a wreck with my own eyes, I'd swear that it was never damaged at all." Mom looks back at the instrument hanging on the wall. "Granted, it's the original top and neck, but it feels and sounds exactly like it did when I first played it. It must be the Lane touch."

"Guess he does have the same kind of natural talent for making things the way Janey does," Dad muses. "Just didn't think that a fourteen year old kid would have that kind of attention to detail, or for that matter, that kind of persistence."


	2. Chapter 2

_**You'll Know When You Have Kids Of Your Own**_

 _ **Chapter 2**_

 _ **Janet's Lament**_

 _Oh, crap._

 _Dating? For crying out loud, when did she turn fifteen? And why do I recall those ridiculous rants of Janet Barch so clearly now? (Not with my daughter, you MAN.)_

 _And Mom was certainly no help at all, what with her laughing. In my opinion she's embracing her role of grandmother a bit too enthusiastically._

"Aw, Daria, you need to chill," Trent smiles, looking up from his tablet. Setting the guitar down carefully, he stands and stretches, working a few kinks out of his lanky frame. "Ani's not gonna do anything stupid. She inherited your brains, thank God."

I sigh. He's right, I know. He's no dummy himself, and our daughter is blessed with brains and beauty as well as a small army of meddling women to back her up. I know she's hard-coded savvy, but I can't help but to want to snarl at any boy that comes sniffing around her. I must have inherited that little tendency from Dad.

Trent wraps his arms around me and pulls me tight. It's a comforting thing, the way he holds me, and strangely calming. I think I read somewhere that they use a similar technique with cattle, placing them in a narrow space and applying a gentle but firm overall pressure. They become less restive, and it apparently makes it easier to kill them with a precision hammer blow between the eyes. They say the meat tastes better that way.

* * *

I can hear Jacob in his room, wailing away on some doomed Axis fighters near Stalingrad. Weird how he's really getting into history, playing that stupid WWII game; at least the designers made a real attempt at historical accuracy.

"Have your forces isolated the 6th Army yet?" I ask as he comes out for some rations.

"The Italians are putting up a good fight so far," he grumbles with reluctant admiration, shaking his head. "Makes you wonder what was going through their minds. Maybe they were starting to think that they had chosen the wrong side of the conflict."

"I doubt that the guys actually doing the fighting worried about that," I sigh, forcing some carrot sticks on him. "They were just doing what they thought was their duty."

"I know. They may have been just like me, but it's my country they're invading."

"Just a game, Jake." _God, it still feels weird to call him that sometimes. I'm glad that Dad lived long enough to hold his grandson._

I glance up at the kitchen clock."Is your sister around?"

"Still in lockup, remember?" He grins gleefully at his older sister's misfortune.

Oh yes. My sweetie has _detention,_ ending today. At least she had gotten in trouble for sticking up for a friend, but really, the pounding she had visited on the jerk that was hassling Emily was uncalled for. She had come close to cracking his skull, and I know she had shown surprising control in her delivery. I should have never let her read my old Melody Powers stuff.

I know I shouldn't, but I have to smile. It was as if I had written that stuff for Ani. She isn't quite as short as I was at her age, but she doesn't look like a fighter either. She inherited the Lane athleticism, surprisingly strong and with lightning reflexes. She had gotten her black belt last year; followed by starting on _Krav Maga_ training. Perhaps it was a bit much but with her mouth it was just a bit of insurance for her poor suffering parents' peace of mind.

She definitely has a bit of the old Morgendorffer temper as well. I never thought I'd be grateful for the Orwellian security that was standard these days in school hallways, but the video had clearly backed up Ani's story. Some idiot guy had pushed Emily up to her locker and had begun to practically grope her. Ani got in his face and was pushed hard; she had him laid out on the floor in less than a second as she rolled and sprung to her feet. She had begun to walk away when he scrambled up and lunged for her, only to be met with a reflexive roundhouse kick to the head that had put him out cold.

Mom- well, Grandma- naturally, was furious. While she wasn't licensed to practice law in Massachusetts (besides being retired anyway) she was still well connected enough to be taken very seriously by the DA, not to mention the school board. Ani was suspended for the following two days while the school interviewed witnesses, analyzed recordings and sorted the mess out, and was rewarded with detention for two weeks. The guy woke up in the hospital finding that he had been suspended and was now facing civil action from Emily's family.

In the end letters of absolution were appended to her school record, effectively expunging the incident. By that time there were only a few days left on her detention, which I quietly asked the Principal to leave standing so that Ani would think twice before responding with deadly force in the future.

Ani just laid low and did her homework in detention. She had started to help some of the other kids with their work, and made a few strategic friends in low places. If she got in trouble again, it wouldn't be with them. She learned a lot about how some of the other kids had to live.

At least I won't have to worry about boys getting grabby with Ani on dates. Trent will be able to track them down by her boot prints on their heads.

I hand a frowning Jacob a glass of water, pulling rank on him and relieving him of his Coke. "Just be thankful that you have your own Special Ops team on your side."

"I can take care of myself, you know."

"True. But your sister knows how to fight dirty if she has to and can get away with it."

"No fair. How come I didn't get _Krav Maga_ training too?"

"Because you're bigger than she is, and you know how to keep your mouth shut."

* * *

I open the refrigerator door and pull out the big Pyrex dish of marinating…stuff. I have no idea what Trent put into this, but I catch a tantalizing whiff of spices that are at once familiar and strange. I wish he'd write down what he does, but he approaches cooking differently. I prefer to follow a recipe, whereas he'll just walk in, see what's edible in the kitchen or the pantry and just start.

It's like he just communes with everything in the kitchen, and depending on what piece of music he's been working on or listening to, he pulls things together in the way that feels right at that moment. Whenever I walk into the kitchen and catch him in silent conversation with some strange vegetable I just grab my coffee and escape. If he cooks, I'll clean up. If I cook, he'll help, and then we share the cleanup.

Whatever. It's always good, but without documentation I'd never be able to reproduce any of these dishes. He'd make a great chef, if the kitchen crew were made up of mindreaders and out-of-work paleonutritionists reverse engineering dinner.

"Hi Mom," Ani calls out as she enters the kitchen. She drops her backpack on a chair, and pulls out her lunch bag, rinsing out the containers and putting them into the dishwasher. She's a small, slender girl, but more comfortable in her skin that I was at that age. I have to grin as I note the color of her hair this week, a flaming red _way_ brighter than Quinn's. Jane loves to tell her favorite niece embellished stories relating the mythic clashes she claims to have witnessed between Quinn and I. Total bullcrap, but entertaining nonetheless. Ani loves the little sketches that Jane does to illustrate her stories; she's got them on her bedroom wall.

She gets herself some juice out of the fridge and wanders over to the counter. "What's that?" she asks, indicating the dish.

"Ask your dad," I say. "He'll be back in about a half hour."

"I thought he was finished with that film project soundtrack."

"They want him back for another one, so they're trying to talk him into it."

She says nothing. Sipping her juice, she looks around the kitchen that she's grown up in, now realizing that not everyone has it as easy as she does. After a moment, she pulls some greens out of the fridge and we spend a quiet time working on a salad for dinner.

She's a good kid; homicidal, maniacal tendencies notwithstanding.

* * *

"So when's Nicky and Auntie J back from Manhattan?" Ani asks, pushing food around on her plate.

Jacob is doing the same thing with his food. "This better not be kangaroo butt," he mutters quietly, but still audibly.

"This weekend," Trent answers, amused at the bond between our daughter and Jane. He turns to Jacob, a small smile playing across his face. "And it's _Nutria_. Kangaroo _tail_ is too expensive."

Ani pokes at a piece and carefully nibbles at it. "When is she gonna stop being stupid and make Matt move back in with her and Nicky?" She starts to eat with more gusto.

Trent and I exchange amused glances. "I think that's between the two of them," I say, trying but failing to be detached about the whole thing. _Jane, you idiot._

"I don't get it," Jacob grumbles. "They're still married, don't see anyone but each other, Matt practically lives over here anyway, and she's not gonna find anyone else crazy enough to put up with her drama."

"My sister has…attachment issues," Trent says slowly.

"She's gonna regret it if she lets him walk away," my fifteen-going-on-thirtysomething daughter mutters. "Emily thinks he's hot." She's pulled out her phone and is thumbing something into a search engine.

"She's a little young for him, don't you think?" I ask, trying to not snicker. "I thought she had a crush on your cousin Nicky."

"I heard you liked older guys yourself at my age," comes the smartass answer.

Her father wisely chooses to say nothing.

"Eeeew," Ani squeals. She turns the phone to face us. "Nutria are _giant river rats_. And they're UGLY."

I put my fork down, and shoot my husband a dirty look.

Jacob takes a curious nibble, and then starts shoveling it down.

Ani keeps eating. "Foodie rats are tasty," she smirks. She looks at my plate. "Gonna eat that, Mom?"

* * *

"Cool," Ani smiles as she puts the meager leftovers into the fridge. "I'm gonna feed some to Emily and then tell her what she just ate."

I try not to smile. "If she hurls you have to clean it up."

"Speaking of Emily, can she sleep over this Friday and Saturday night?"

"Depends. Any outstanding schoolwork due?" I don't know why I bother asking. Ani rolls her eyes.

"I'm done. Finished it all at school. Emily will finish Friday, so is it okay?"

Trent looks at me, shrugging.

"It's okay if her mom's-"

"Thanks! Daddy, you're not using studio C, right?"

"I guess not-"

"Great. Emily likes the drum kit in C but I don't like the small kick so can I borrow the big old Ludwig from B? Thanks, gotta go. Emily and I are gonna check out the open mic night at the pizza joint." Ani finishes rinsing off plates and whatever she sees in the sink and loads the dishwasher. Before Trent or I can say anything, she's gone.

Jacob puts his plate in the dishwasher, not bothering to rinse it off. "Good rations, Dad," he grins, heading off to fight for Mother Russia again.

"Another hour, and then find something else to do," Trent calls after him.

I turn to Trent, crossing my arms. " _Nutria?_ Really?"

"It was chicken," he smiles. "Organic free range."

"Ass."

"No, it really was chicken. I think ass would taste more like horsemeat, since asses and donkeys are related."

"Bite mine."

He takes my hand, pulling me out of the kitchen. "Sure thing."

"You know, if Max and Nick were as good as Ani and Emily, Mystik Spiral would have landed a recording deal while you and Janey were still in high school." He holds onto my hand as he shoves the bedroom door closed with his butt.

"Weird how they like a vintage sound," I smile. "I hope they don't want me to sit in. I've got a lot of stuff to do." Jamming with the girls would be more fun, but deadlines don't allow for that. I lock the door.

"I think they were planning to audition some guitar players. Sounds like they're getting kinda serious about this," Trent frowns. "I'm not too sure about this. I don't want this to turn into a distraction from schoolwork." He distracts me by brushing his lips against my ear.

"You're turning into an old fart," I smile, rolling him over and pinning his hands to the bed. Or at least trying to. He easily pulls one hand free.

"So why are you even more beautiful than when we got married?" He traces a fingertip up my spine, stopping to draw a small, slow spiral just below my shoulderblades. _Anahata Chakra._

He stops, flattening his palm against my back, centered where he had traced his spiral, warmth emanating in subtle waves through my body. I lose myself in those ocean eyes; the rise and fall of his breathing drawing me in deeper as we join together.

* * *

The distinctive ring from the security desk makes me lose my place in the manuscript. I hit a key and Steve's scowling face appears in a small corner window. He gives me a tiny, conspiratorial wink.

"Ms. Ani has a visitor, Ms. Lane," he says on speakerphone. A nervous looking young man fidgets at the counter, perhaps sixteen years old. He appears to be studying his image in the video monitor. "Should I search him and send him on up, or will Ms. Ani be down shortly?"

I give Steve a big smile. "Have him fill out the questionnaire, take a DNA swab, let the dogs have a sniff and then do a full body cavity search." The young man's attention snaps towards Steve, his eyebrows meeting his hairline.

"MOM!" comes a horrified wail from the hallway.

"Never mind, Steve, just a fingerprint and a hair sample will do," I sigh.

Steve laughs. "Sure thing, boss."

"Ani's on her way down." I hang up and swivel my chair towards my mortified daughter. "Be back by ten, and don't kill him."

"His name is Michael Davis, and we're just going to the movies down on Tenth, next to the bookstore. Afterwards, we're gonna get a burger or something."

I stifle a smile, and Ani turns to go. "Why can't I have a _normal_ family like everyone else?" she mutters.

"No such thing, Sweetie. Have fun anyway."

Some time later, Trent sticks his head in my office. "Hungry yet? I'm testing out a new basil chicken recipe on Jake, Nicky, Janey and Matt."

"Sounds good. I'm just about finished with this article." I glance at the clock. "You know those guys will eat anything that doesn't fight back, so I don't know what you expect to learn from this experiment."

"True. Just some company for my real test subject."

I fall silent for a moment. "How are they doing, anyway?"

"You know that trip that Janey and Nicky made to Manhattan? It was kind of a summit. Nicky stayed with Matt's friend Jill so they could work some stuff out."

"What happened?"

Trent leans against the doorway, as if exhausted.

"Matt asked Janey for a divorce if she really didn't want him here."

"That part I knew about. I was asking about the outcome."

"You knew?" Trent thinks about it and grins sheepishly. "Of course you did." He scratches his chin out of habit, the soul patch long gone.

"It wasn't fair to him or Nicky, you know. I told Jane that she needed to make up her mind. You know where I stand on the matter. She was the one that drove him away, so all that shit that happened afterwards…" I stop. "Wait, you said Nicky, Janey a _nd_ Matt?"

Trent smiles. "Yeah. He came back with them."

* * *

Jane hands the big steel wok to me so I can wipe it out before setting it on the stove to dry completely. "It's okay, _Hermana_ , you can say it."

 _Hah!_ "Told you. So, are you actually gonna follow through with some counseling? It's okay to drag him in, too, you know. Might be helpful."

"Yeah, I know. And you were right all along. I pushed him away before I…" She stops.

"It wasn't just about you and Matt."

" I know. That's why I brought Nicky with me. It was really unfair to him, leaving things hanging like that. I needed to settle things, and I needed Nicky to keep things in perspective."

"You have to want this in order for it to work."

"I know. I do." Jane flashes me a smile. "Hey, speaking of the ones that really matter, where's my favorite niece, anyway?"

"On a date."

Jane pulls a face. "Damn. My hearing's going. I thought you said that Ani was on a date."

I roll my eyes before I can catch myself. "She's fifteen. Old enough to go on a G-rated date."

"Wow." Jane breathed. "Look at the time! It's nine-fifteen. She's blown curfew, right?"

"Ten PM."

"No way."

"What?"

"Nine PM. Anybody with the _cojones_ to ask Ani out is not gonna be a boy scout."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Well, think about it. Any teenage guy with the brassies to ask out the daughter of a famous musician and an equally famous writer has got to have some seriously warped sense of self-worth."

I smile at her. "Not this kid. Steve was really messing with him. Thought he was gonna piss himself."

"You mean YOU were messing with him through your minion."

* * *

Ani gets home at ten PM, on the dot. She takes her time in the entry, unlacing her Doc Martens and putting them away in the shoe cabinet. She pads barefoot into the family room, socks in hand, scowling at the little mob of people gathered to tease her.

"So how was your date?" I ask casually.

"Not funny, Mom," Ani grumbles. "Michael almost ran off when Steve mentioned something about a GPS collar." She shoots a dirty look to her aunt when Jane starts laughing.

"It was supposed to be a _subdermal implant,"_ I say as straight as I can. "Why do I bother giving Steve a script if he won't read it?"

Ani slumps into a seat. "Please stop it. It's bad enough that the boys are too scared to ask me out, and so _I_ have to be the one who has to _beg_ for a date!"

 _Awww, crap._ I get up and sit down next to my daughter. "You know, you're right. I'm sorry, I won't do it again."

Ani sighs. "I always get treated like some kind of freak, like I'm off limits or something."

"That's because you ARE a freak," say Nicky and Jake in unison. They fall silent as soon as Ani stands up and walks over to them. Before they can realize what happened, she has them both by the ears.

 _"OWWWOWWWOWWWOWWWOWWWOWWWOOWWW!"_

She stops trying to Van Gogh the boys and leans in. "Just wait until you guys start dating. I have _pictures._ Really, really _embarrassing_ pictures. Of you two five year old idiots , playing with your penises, doing your Mister Happy dance."

"Mooooommmm!" wails Jake.

"Your sister's vocabulary was fine. You two deserve it."

"Check, and mate," Says Matt, once he stops laughing his ass off.


	3. Chapter 3

_**You'll Know When You Have Kids Of Your Own**_

 _ **Chapter 3**_

 _ **Borderlines**_

Ani bought a bowl of green Jello and a bag of chips and headed for her usual spot in the cafeteria, where Emily was waiting.

"Hey, Lane," said a sullen girl sitting on the end of a nearby table. Her tray was empty, save for the overcooked, mushy veggies, and covered with bits of what looked like trash. On closer look, Ani saw that it was a shredded napkin and an unfolded paper milk carton. She was with a group that everyone assumed were the school troublemakers, kids who most went out of their way to avoid.

"Hey, Rusty," Ani said back, stopping to face the girl.

She had noticed her struggling through a math book while in detention, and had cautiously approached her to see if she could help. The other kids nearby, who were making no attempt to do anything other than to wait out their time, had shot her hard looks as she approached. Rusty, on the other hand, had looked at her appraisingly in silence, and then nodded. The other kids turned away, some with disgusted looks on their faces. Rusty just shot them the finger and turned back to Ani.

It turned out to be basic Algebra, well within Ani's capabilities. Rusty pointed to a simple equation written on a strip of paper that was serving as a bookmark. "Battery charging formula for a cheap gel-cell battery," she explained. "I keep frying the things and figured I was doing it wrong. Found this online. I should know this shit."

It had taken only ten minutes to get through the basics of how to solve the problem. Rusty had built her own street rail, as she called it; an improvised electric longboard like a skateboard that had a handheld throttle. After they had gotten out of detention, Rusty pulled it out of a worn, shapeless black bag that had been stuffed under her chair.

Some of the other kids stayed around to watch, curious as to why Rusty was hanging out with this brainiac chick. Ignoring them, she unfolded the curious machine, which seemed to be made of sections of an old snow ski, hinges and mismatched bolts. Rusty had painted it all flat black with a rattlecan, which gave it a vaguely military look. The only color on it was what looked like some kind of Army unit insignia on the hump that Ani guessed was the battery and motor cover.

"Made it so it collapses," Rusty explained, tightening some thumbscrews that locked the board flat. It was now twice as long as before. She twisted the nose and clicked it into place, the front wheels now on the same side as the drive wheel. "That way I can bring it into class and stuff; it's an easier ride when the wheelbase is longer. The electronics and motor's out of a busted electric scooter that my dad found somewhere."

Ani had been impressed, to say the least. "This is cool! You have to meet my brother; he likes to make stuff too, but nothing this interesting."

Since then, she had run into Rusty a few times, but all she would get out of her were a few mumbled words and an awkward smile.

This time, Rusty's smile was more open. "Thanks for helping me out, Ani. Finally got that battery thing sorted out. It's been running on the same battery for two weeks now."

"Hey, glad I could help," Ani replied. A few of the guys near Rusty muttered mild obscenities. Rusty lightly slapped the shoulder of the guy next to her. "Lay off, morons. Ani's okay. 'Sides, she could kick your nuts out through your noses if she wanted to."

A couple of them snickered and grunted in agreement. "Guess she could at that," the biggest one laughed. "I'm Erik," he said with a narrow smile. If anyone of these jerks gives you shit, come see me."

"I'll do that," Ani said after a surprised moment. "See you, Rusty."

The girl waved as she turned back to her friends. "Leave her alone, okay?" she said quietly, just barely audible as Ani walked over to the marginalized brain table.

"You should ask that big guy out," Emily smirked as Ani sat down opposite her. "He's kinda cute, in a bad boy sorta way."

Ani glanced back over at him, blushing a bit when he winked at her. "Least he wouldn't be scared of me," she muttered.

"Sure, he's got a hundred pounds on you."

Ani smirked. "Bet I could still kick his ass, even if he was the kind to hit a girl." She raised an eyebrow at Emily's expression. "Don't worry, I'm not that desperate." She unwrapped her sandwich, offering a half to Emily. "Ugly Rat salad sandwich?"

"Your dad told me that it was really chicken," Emily smiled, taking the sandwich.

"Yeah, I know, but you should have seen the look on your face at first." She ate her half, and then began on the Jello.

"Ani, why are you on a Jello kick?"

"I dunno, just trying to figure out what flavor this is supposed to be. I mean, what kind of stuff in nature is fluorescent green anyway?" She pushed the bowl towards Emily, who took a spoonful. "Besides, it's kinda amazing you can actually eat this stuff, considering what it's made of."

Emily stopped, not sure if she should swallow or not. She didn't want to spit it into her milk carton, so she swallowed it anyway. "Go ahead, ruin my lunch."

"Gelatin is a protein extracted from skin, bones, tendons, cartilage and hoofs of pigs and cows, mostly," Ani smirked.

"That's not so bad," Emily smiled. She offered Ani half of her lunchmeat sandwich. "This stuff is made of ground up lips, ears and buttholes."

Ani accepted it and started eating. "No, it's not. That's the stuff they put in dog food."

"Like I said-"

"Shut up, you _liar,_ " Ani laughed. "You already tried pulling that with your 'dog food' chili."

"Okay, okay," smiled Emily. "You're still in the lead with that river rat dish, but barely. I never really threw up, did I?"

* * *

Their laughter carried as far as a few tables away, where Macy, the Queen of the popular crowd, rolled her eyes in disgust. "God, those two geeks are the _worst."_

"Yeah, but they're _funny,"_ snickered Janine, checking her makeup in her compact mirror.

"They're _dykes,"_ snapped Macy.

Janine slipped her compact back into her purse. _How do you know? Besides, so what if they are?_

"Kinda weird how that Lane chick doesn't seem to give a shit about her clothes and stuff," Jennie offered. "Like, her parents are cool."

"Bullshit," spat Macy. "They're a couple of _freaks_ , just like their weird ass ninja daughter."

Janine looked at Ani and Emily. _What the hell crawled up your ass and died, Macy? I kinda like them. Maybe you're just jealous._

* * *

Rusty watched from the end of the street as the school parking lot emptied. Kids were sitting on the low brick wall that fronted the dropoff circle, waiting for their rides home. More students headed down to where the buses were loading.

She looked at her dad's old Hamilton watch. She didn't start her job for another hour today, so she pulled out her math book and went back over the day's lesson. If she ever was to get over the crappy hand she had been dealt, she'd have to somehow get into something like an engineering school, and that meant getting her head around math. Ani was right; not everybody could make something like her street rail. She had just thought that it was the only way she could get some wheels; God only knew that she'd never get a car unless she could scrape the cash together herself.

It wasn't fair. Her Dad had enlisted, he'd signed up to do what he thought was his duty. In the end, he got screwed. PTSD, lousy doctors, crap support from the country he gave it up for. It was all he could do to survive, and that was with Rusty covering her own food costs with her shitty part time job.

She thought she saw Ani and Emily climb into a nice car. She had to smile when Ani had talked about introducing her to her brother, like that would ever happen. The girl moved in a totally different circle that didn't include her kind. Still, Ani was alright by her.

Nope, life wasn't fair. All you could do was suck it up and get on with it.


	4. Chapter 4

_**You'll Know When You Have Kids Of Your Own**_

 _ **Chapter 4**_

 _ **Nightfall**_

Rusty Michaelson pulled up to the little cottage, stepping off her rail just as the voltage dropped enough to be noticeable. Much better now; it had enough juice to make it over the crown of the hill, and she could pretty much coast all the way down the soft grade to the crappy neighborhood she called home. It wasn't that bad, and it was pretty close to where her part-time job was. It was dark, but if she kept an eye out it was pretty safe. She took off her helmet and switched off the LED marker lights she had attached to give her a little more confidence running in the street, away from the sidewalks.

At least they had a place. Robert Coleman, the old man that owned the run down house in front was okay, and pretty much kept to himself. Sometimes, it helped a lot that the guy was hard of hearing.

He had been a helicopter door gunner in 'Nam back in 1969, when NVA fire had taken out the engine of his Huey. They managed to autorotate but landed hard, and he had slammed his head on the doorframe, putting him out cold. Without a helmet he would have crushed his skull, but he was messed up enough. He didn't remember the firefight before they managed to evac them out, which was just as well. That had put him on a transport back to Hawaii, to Tripler Army General Hospital for a series of operations, and then a one-way ride stateside.

When her dad had run into Coleman, it was like an unexpected gift. Bob knew firsthand what it was like for someone to struggle with reintegrating into conventional society, which for the most part chose to remain ignorant of just what it was that made men and women like Les Michaelson different. To make it even harder, Michaelson was raising a daughter on his own. Bob hadn't heard from his own kids in over thirty years, since his wife had split with them.

Rusty knew that Coleman felt sorry for them, but she had to live with it. She and her dad had always got by on their own; if nothing else, he had his pride. And Rusty was proud of her old man, as hard as things could get from time to time. At least Bob's accommodation wasn't rooted in pity but in empathy. He'd agreed to rent them the little cottage for less than the usual market rate, and in exchange she and her dad tried to keep it from deteriorating even further. Sometimes Rusty would fix stuff around the main house; she was pretty good with mechanical things, something Bob sucked at. It was probably due to his lousy eyesight and arthritis.

She could hear her dad ripping on the old acoustic guitar. He played it hard, venting this anger that just could not be pulled up by the roots no matter what he tried. Sometimes it was like the only thing that helped him deal sometimes. She was glad that she had found it for him at a thrift store.

Rusty knew it was good for him because it worked for her as well. When her dad managed to get some work hours, she would pull the old no-name dreadnought out of its cardboard case, replace broken strings for him and practice what he had taught her. Like him, she played it hard, all snarl and buzz and rage, burning away the frustration and anger of being young and piss-poor, not even daring to dream so as not to have to see it inevitably slip out of reach.

* * *

Daria watched as Jane set the cup down in front of her. "I'm serious. I'm starting to worry. She has a lot of acquaintances, or what you might call followers, but not very many people that she considers friends."

"She has Emily," Jane smiled softly. "If I remember correctly, you and I had a fairly small circle of friends at that age. In fact we didn't even acknowledge some of them as friends, but they were."

"I know. But Ani's basically more sociable than I was, and I think she really needs more people around her." Daria took a sip of what Jane claimed was espresso. "What the _hell_ is this stuff?"

Jane grinned. "Pretty strong, huh?"

"I'll say. Is it from plants growing on the ground or made directly from dirt?"

"Here, you wimp," Jane grinned, running a shot of hot water and cutting Daria's drink. "I'm not too sure I like it myself. I think Sally burnt the coffee beans and wanted to see if I would drink it."

"If you did, she'd sell it as 'Jane's Select' or something like that. She'd have them lining up out the door if you gave it the nod."

"Sheep."

"Kind of the problem Ani's got, even though she doesn't really understand it." Daria dropped a lump of Mexican sugar in her cup. "Better. Good, actually." She pushed it over to Jane.

"She doesn't follow trends, or care that much about what other people think about appearances, kinda like you." Tasting the brew, she shrugged her shoulders. "Eh." She pulled over a bottle of hot sauce, and splashed some into the cup.

Daria raised an eyebrow. "Emily says that she doesn't talk about it, but her classmates know all about us. Jacob and Nicky are gonna run into the same thing."

"Too late for private school, I guess." Picking up the cup, Jane sniffed cautiously.

Daria shook her head. "I want her in a public school. I think my parents did the right thing with Quinn and I, even though they could have put me into Grove Hill. But whether or not she wants it known, her family just isn't average."

Jane smiled. "She wants friends who like her for who she is, not for how rich and famous her parents are."

"We're not rich, but we aren't hurting. So in a way she's doing what Tom did with his shitty cars and hanging out with us weird poor loner chicks."

"I never thought we were poor, but I suppose to Tom's social circle we were total peasants," Jane smirked. "You always had more money than I did, but at least I tried to never mooch off you. I liked you for you."

"Exactly," Daria sighed. "Ani has kids trying to be her friend, for the wrong reasons, and she's smart enough to know it."

"Well, she's not Anti-Quinn like you. At least she has fun with her hair and actually has a range of looks." Jane pondered the questionable liquid in the coffee cup. "Hey, is Trent around?"

"She and Emily buy a lot of their clothes at thrift stores, but I think it's to annoy the fashion crowd. I think some other kids are kind of emulating that, and it probably makes the more fashion aware look a little self-involved. Quinn thinks it's funny now." Daria took the cup and walked over to the sink, dumping it out. "You're not poisoning my husband. It'll be too much work to housebreak another one."

* * *

Rusty put her math book away when she heard her dad stop playing; he usually felt a lot better after he'd had a chance to get the day's stresses out of his system. She had sat under the porch light to read ahead in the book, so that her dad wouldn't hold back. He sometimes got a little self-conscious if she walked in while he was playing, and she wanted him to vent.

Hopefully the takeout containers of lasagna hadn't spilled, but the plastic bag would have controlled that anyway. The restaurant owner was pretty cool about letting the employees take stuff that didn't sell out, and since everyone else did it from time to time, she didn't feel bad about it. It was a good thing that it wasn't fast food. God only knew that her dad didn't need any more health issues.

She stood up and stretched. Her ass was sore from sitting on the porch for so long. Maybe she'd see if Bob would be okay with her using one of his old chairs that were in his garage.

Math had been getting easier since Ani began helping her out when she got stuck, and it had at least opened her up to walking into the tutoring center. She had begun to understand that there was nothing wrong with asking for help from time to time, under the right circumstances. It didn't mean that you were weak, right? If a smart chick like Ani wasn't embarrassed about asking for clarification on something she wasn't sure about, why should she?

She quietly walked into the cottage, and set about reheating dinner for her father.


	5. Chapter 5

_**You'll Know When You Have Kids Of Your Own**_

 _ **Chapter 5**_

 _ **Ex Machina**_

"This totally blows," Emily muttered. "I hate telling people that they suck."

Ani smiled. "Aww, you're pretty diplomatic. I have a hard time not making vomit noises."

Emily laughed. "I can't believe Ben tried to tell you that you were playing your bass funny. It was hilarious when you handed it to him and he thought that there was something wrong with it."

"Imagine that, no frets on a fretless bass." Ani shut down the amp and returned her instrument to its stand. "Well, if we don't find a decent guitarist we're not gonna get very far."

"Your mom is really good," Emily smiled. "Too bad she's not twenty years younger."

"Then you'd have to find another bassist," Ani smirked.

"Oh, yeah." Emily laughed as she pulled a tuning wrench out of her pocket and went to work on the floor toms. "Well, until we find someone, I guess we just have to track."

"More fun playing live, though," Ani yawned. "And you know all guys think girl drummers are _hot."_

"Especially if they don't wear a bra."

"Not that it would matter in your case."

"Shut up."

"Kidding. Hey, is that why you like those Roto-Toms mounted high? So you have to like, lift your arm up like this?"

"Exactly." The girls cracked up.

"I wish I could have an acoustic set in my bedroom," sighed Emily. "Your dad has the sweetest kits here- these Ziljian hi-hats sound soooo nice. My E-drums totally suck."

"Forget it, Em, you hit too hard. You'd drive your folks nuts."

"Nah, I can control it. it's just that it's so much fun to play real drums for a change.

* * *

 _This'll fit Dad. I know he's more comfortable in that old Army jacket, but this will make him blend in a little more._ She checked the price; with today's yellow tag markdown, it was ten dollars. That meant enough extra money to get a scarf for herself, so she made her way over to the racks in the back of the thrift store. It was starting to get really cold sometimes, what with October around the corner.

She smiled as she saw that the old electric guitar was still hanging behind the so-called 'collectibles' counter. Hell, it'd probably still be there until the monthly fifty percent off sale, and even then it would be a ripoff.

"Hey, Sarah," she greeted the bored clerk behind the counter. The girl brightened when she saw Rusty, and went to retrieve the guitar from it's hook. "I talked to Randy about this thing, and he's being a total dick about it. He's not moving on the price." She handed the old instrument over.

Rusty pulled the strap over her shoulder. It was still adjusted for her, not surprisingly. It would be nice to have, so she could practice without waking up her dad, but it was so damn overpriced. It was a solidbody, a set-neck copy of a Les Paul Junior, some brand she'd never heard of. You could see that it was made of some kind of real wood, not ply, through it's chipped up paint job, but it needed a lot of work. It was playable, kinda; the neck had a bow but she knew she could get it out if the trussrod wasn't stripped. At least it wasn't twisted, and who knew if the pickup and wiring worked at all. She pulled out the heavy pick in her pocket and tuned it up.

She smiled as she tore through the opening bars of Stevie Ray Vaughn's _Double Trouble._ Even unplugged, you could hear it. _He'd have been right at home with this thing, what with these heavy ass strings._ She closed her eyes and pushed it hard, feeling the body vibrate against her belly and hip.

Sarah loved listening to Rusty play, even if it was with an unamplified electric guitar. You could tell she knew what the hell she was doing. She waited until the girl had gotten her six-string fix.

"Hey, Randy said that the southside store was gonna send us some kinda amp. Should be here by Friday. You could plug it in and try it out."

Rusty handed the guitar back over the counter. "I can't even afford this thing, let alone an amp."

"Yeah, I know, but if it turns out that the guitar don't work right, Randy'll have to drop the price, and you could fix it. You know the big sale's on Saturday, right? If you come by first thing, I might have forgotten to put this thing back up on the wall. But I can't actually hold it for you or they're gonna fire my ass."

"Maybe. I got some stuff I can sell off, maybe raise another thirty bucks or so. I could use the money no matter what."

"You ever fix that turntable I got for ya?" _Hey, once I'm told to throw something in the dumpster, it's up for grabs._

"What I'm talking about. I'll go see if the vinyl shop will take it off my hands. Listen, Sarah, I really appreciate it when you snag stuff for me."

"No prob, girl. You're my go-to fixit queen anyway."

Rusty smiled. It was a pretty cool arrangement; she kept Sarah's scooter running like a clock, and anytime there was something interesting that the store didn't want to deal with, she shoved it in a box and left it under the dumpster for Rusty. She was pretty careful to follow the rules, though; Sarah needed this job. It would be cool to work here too, but the leftover food she got from the restaurant was worth more.

She found a decent scarf, and forked over twelve dollars for everything. _Maybe I'll come by on Saturday; I need a heavy coat too. Might be something by then that fits and doesn't look too crappy._ She forced the guitar out of her thoughts, retrieved her black bag from behind the register and left. She didn't notice Ani and Emily behind the racks of jeans.

"What the hell?" Emily cried. " _She's awesome!_ Why didn't we-"

"Walk up to her in a thrift store because she _has_ to shop here?" Ani sighed. "You and I do this for fun. Rusty has no choice. I bet all her stuff comes from places like this. Look, I don't know what's going on with her, but I can tell you that she doesn't want anybody feeling sorry for her."

"I thought you were helping her with stuff."

"With her math, and even _that_ was a big step for her. This is totally different." Ani looked over at the sorry excuse for a guitar hanging on the wall. The girl had spent her money on a coat way too big for herself.

The two girls hung around for another half hour, making sure that Rusty wouldn't see them leaving the store. They looked at stuff, but somehow it wasn't fun anymore. They left without buying anything.

* * *

"I know you've mentioned that she seems to have a way with machines," Daria mused as she made some coffee.

"She's smart, too," Ani mumbled, chin propped up on her hand as she tried to read her own writing in her notebook. "She was kinda hung up on some math but she got it pretty quickly once we started digging into it. I got the feeling that she probably doesn't like to ask questions in class and just tries to figure things out on her own."

"Do you have any classes with her?"

Ani nodded. "A few; in Science and English she sits in the back and doesn't say much, so I don't really know how she's doing in those. But I do know that she was in detention for pissing off our American Studies teacher. We were talking about the situation in the Middle East, and Mr. Sanderson began to argue that our military had made some strategic mistakes in the way it dealt with opposing factions."

"And she disagreed?"

"Not exactly," Ani explained. "She kind of went off on a tangent and began ranting about how we let ourselves be railroaded into using our military to go after oil resources, about how we ruined lives on all sides of the conflict for money."

"I take it she was quite passionate about it."

"She was _furious._ Next time I saw her, she and I are cooling our heels in detention."

Daria set down two cups of coffee and pulled up a chair. "You know, your grandparents were against the war in Vietnam."

Ani smiled. "I still can't imagine Grams as a hippie."

"They tried to levitate the Pentagon as a protest, by focusing the power of their minds."

"You're serious? My Grandparents were having way too much fun if they thought they could do that."

"That's not all they tried," Daria said, trying not to grin. "Maybe I'll fill you in after you get a little older." She took a sip of her coffee, finding it too hot.

"You know, I actually had a point. Most of what the Anti-War movement did was to try and force people to think about what was going on. That was the idea behind the demonstrations and protests, and for that matter, just pushing back against the status quo."

"Yeah, we talked about that olden days stuff in class last year." Ani tried and failed to get rid of an image in her head of her grandmother as an idealistic young woman burning her bra.

Her mother smiled sadly. "What was probably the most impactful thing was the newsfilm footage that was shot on the front lines, the images of the caskets coming home, the Viet Cong prisoner being executed by a pistol to the head, and that one photo of Kim Phuc."

Ani paused, then made the connection. " _The Napalm girl,"_ she said quietly. "The My Lai massacre."

After a moment, Daria continued. "Remember Grace Hanlon?"

"Your old boss?"

"Yeah. She was a pretty well known photographer, but she became a photojournalist after she saw that one photo." Daria took another sip of coffee, sat the cup back down and ran a fingertip around the rim. She looked at her own beautiful daughter, sitting across the table from her. She could feel her eyes beginning to water _. She had not fully understood that image until this very moment with Ani, her own child._

"It was the power of images like those that helped to bring many to their senses." Daria pushed the cup of coffee away, leaning in to look her daughter in the eye. "They illustrated that no matter the politics and the rationalization, war was madness. Atrocities are committed in war and are an assault to our own humanity and are the illustration of hate and Hell on Earth. Usually we want to transfer that to our perception of those we call the enemy, but it is where it lies. The evil acts of the few tainted the honor of most Americans who served in that war."

"People become soldiers to fight for what they believe in," Ani said after awhile.

"Of course. And back then some were drafted, and found that they had what it took to serve. It's not about the honor and goodness of a soldier; the madness lives in the lies used to manipulate them. But even then it's not clear; what is a lie to one is the truth to another."

"I don't understand."

"That's why we often accept what we are told," Daria said wearily.

"So the reasons for war have nothing to do with the goodness and valor of the soldier."

"Exactly. Duty and heroism is the sacrifice of self to a higher cause. We may not agree with the reason for war, but the soldier who serves a higher cause should always be honored."

Ani sat quietly for a long time. "Rusty's dad was a soldier in Iraq. I heard that that's why he- they- are having a tough time of it. I think she kind of takes care of him."

"I don't want to get into my thoughts on this Forever War, but I don't think the folks that wanted revenge for 9-11 thought this through. Medical technologies and techniques are saving men and women that would have never made it just a few years back. We don't have the systems in place to properly care for them in the long term, which we _should_ be doing."


	6. Chapter 6

_**You'll Know When You Have Kids Of Your Own**_

 _ **Chapter 6**_

 _ **All In**_

"Hey, Ani," mumbled Rusty. _Out slumming?_

"Hey. Cool guitar," smiled Ani. "You never know what'll turn up in these stores. Looks like a good Les Paul Junior style axe."

Rusty relaxed visibly as she handed over the twenty to Sarah, and got back a ten in change. "Scored. Bad wiring, so they cut the price way down, and it's half off today. Now I gotta find a small soldering iron. The one my landlord has in his garage is like huge."

Sarah grinned as she handed over the dusty gig bag, quickly stuffing a guitar cable into the outside pocket. "Rusty's a killer player. Glad you got it, girl!"

 _Thanks for the opening!_ "So you play? Cool." Ani looked around. "Nice amp. Does it work?" She stepped over to the counter, where a totally shredded old Sears Silvertone practice amp sat forlornly. "Hey, this one's old enough to have vacuum tubes inside. These things sound great when they're turned all the way up."

Rusty said nothing as she zipped up the gig bag.

"It works pretty good," Sarah laughed. "Just looks like total crap. I think the previous owner's cat pissed on it after sharpening its claws on the sides. Ten bucks, get it out of here."

Turning to Rusty, Ani decided to take a chance. "Got an amp? My dad has like three of these things in his studio, but he likes to take the chassis out and put it into a bigger wood cabinet. He's got at least one original cabinet in good shape that he'd probably let you have. He usually throws them out, but he kinda hesitated with one 'cause it looked like new. Said it was a waste."

"Your dad has a recording studio, right?" Rusty said, after a moment. "Why does he use crappy practice amps like these?"

"He turns them up really loud, until they start to distort and break up a little. He records them with a microphone, up real close. He adds a little reverb sometimes, but they can sound like a big stage amp with the mic that close. Adds a real thick tone."

Rusty thought about it for a moment. "I dunno. Like I said I need to find a soldering iron and some other tools to fix this guitar. Maybe later." She squared her shoulders a bit and turned to face Ani directly. "Look, I just don't have money like you, okay? I don't need your dad to give me stuff. I'll get one later." She pulled the gig back on by its straps, moving to turn away.

"Rusty, wait a minute." Ani stepped forward. "Look, these little amps are not that easy to come by these days. And my dad just didn't want to see that old amp cabinet hit the dumpster, 'cause it's so cool looking."

Sarah leaned into the conversation. "Randy's going on break. I'll sell it for five bucks. He'll yell at me a little, but I'll just say the smell was making me wanna puke!"

"Dammit, Rusty," Ani pushed. "Look, come with me to my place. We have to to work on stuff like this all the time. You can fix your guitar there. Shit! If you won't buy this amp I will, and I'll sell it on _Craigslist_ for a hundred bucks."

* * *

Rusty looked around, eyes wide. She tried to not look impressed, but it was hard.

"Good morning, Ani," smiled Steve from behind the security desk." Nodding to Rusty, he tapped the registry book. "Morning, Miss. Business or personal?"

"Steve, this is Rusty. She's a friend from school. She's cool, okay?"

"Sure thing, Ani. Welcome, Rusty!" Steve smiled, and then paused, sniffing the air. "What the hell is that smell?"

Ani held up the old amplifier. "A box of pure _mojo,_ Steve. Let's _go,"_ Ani smiled, indicating the elevator with a tilt of her head.

Steve laughed. _"That's_ what mojo smells like? Damn, all this time I thought my cat was making something else!"

The girls grinned as the elevator doors closed. "Security? Seriously?" Rusty shook her head.

"Most of the building's business space, and it's a mix of retail and offices. My Aunt Jane and her partners have an Art gallery on the second floor, along with an Architect's office and a small software company. Third floor is _Chilltown Studios,_ my Dad's business, and the forth floor has apartments. We live on the roof."

"Not in a tent, I guess," Rusty said quietly. "I knew your parents were pretty famous but I never figured you for a rich girl. I mean, you don't act like a bitch, like that damn Macy Hennesy."

Ani thought about what she should say.

"Look, my family has some money because we got lucky and my folks worked at it. I didn't have any say in the matter so don't hold that against me, okay?"

Rusty didn't say anything at first. She just leaned against the back of the elevator, taking some of the weight off her back and shoulders. "Maybe we should push a button or something."

Ani smiled a little. "Right." She pushed the third floor button. "Let's get rid of this excess _mojo._

* * *

Rusty had lucked out. Ani's father had been at the workbench, swapping out a pickup on one of the studio guitars. He looked over her instrument, and removed the trussrod cover. "Nice guitar. 1970's, looks like. This one comes from _Matsumoku,_ one of the better Japanese factories that made instruments for lots of brands." He handed her a metric hex wrench from a toolrack. "This will fit. Know how to adjust the trussrod on a guitar?"

Normally, Rusty didn't like being in this position, getting help. But Ani's dad was cool. He didn't seem to judge her like most everybody else; he didn't act like she _needed_ his help. He just set about doing what he normally would do if an ailing guitar appeared in front of him, except that he was doing it through her.

He showed her how to set the temperature on the soldering iron, and gave her a few tips. "Just look at the solder joints. They should look shiny and smooth, not dull. Look for any wires that might have broken off from a joint."

Rusty found one loose wire and reattached it, and touched up the solder joints on the volume knob. He handed her a can of contact cleaner and showed her how to clean the pots and sockets.

"Nice classic Gibson wiring," Trent smiled. "Alnico P90 single coil, cool vintage tone capacitor, copper shielding. This is gonna sound awesome." He unscrewed the cable cover off a new quarter-inch plug and snapped it into the guitar's jack. Clipping a multimeter to the plug's terminals, he ran the guitar's controls back and forth while looking at the readings. "Good to go, Rusty." He stepped aside to let her finish putting it all back together.

"Thanks, Mister Lane," Rusty said quietly.

"No problem," said Trent. "And I'm glad you brought that little amp in. I knew there was a reason I couldn't bring myself to toss that cabinet out." He pulled out a plastic kitchen garbage bag he had snagged from the break area and wrapped up the original, aromatic amplifier cabinet, tying the top securely. "My first amp smelled like this. Picked it off the sidewalk on trash day when I was a kid." He slung the plastic bag over his shoulder. "Anything else for the trash chute?"

"Nope. Thanks, Daddy."

"No prob. Hey, Rusty, you're welcome to work on your stuff here anytime. Just ask Ani or give me a call." He fished out a card from his pocket, handing it to her.

* * *

"They're in there," came Trent's voice from down the hall a minute later.

"Hey, Em," called Ani, plugging Rusty's guitar into the little amp and flipping the power switch on. "Hit it," she called out to Rusty.

Rusty dug in, closing her eyes, and a moment later the tubes warmed up and the little amp kicked in at full volume.

Down the hall, Trent Lane stopped in his tracks.

 _Holy Crap, Ani wasn't kidding. This girl is good!_

He turned around and headed back. Stopping at the door, he smiled as he saw Emily dancing around and Ani pulling a short microphone stand over and sitting it in front of Rusty's little amp. Looking around, she grabbed a cable with a matching transformer off a hook and plugged it into a Twin Reverb for some clean boost. She dashed over to her bass, plugging in and turning its amp on. Emily settled in behind the drum kit and psyched herself up to what Rusty was playing-raw electric blues, right out of the best nights of _Austin City Limits_ \- but different. She was clearly good technically, but it wasn't that. She played with feeling that was far more primal-closer to the grind of the old Delta Bluesmen.

Ani nodded along to Rusty's guitar, and came in loud with a classic blues progression. Emily waited until the next turnaround, and then slammed into the toms first with a crack that made Trent jump.

Grinning, Trent realized that the hairs on his arms were standing up. He looked over at his little girl, totally involved with the music, grooving with her friends. Both she and Emily were zoned, riding that natural high that came with music played well. And this new girl-Rusty- was totally into it as well. She had some problems, from what Ani had told him, but Trent knew that his daughter was a good judge of character. If she was okay with Ani, then she was cool. The daughter of Daria Lane didn't hang with losers and fools.

 _Burn it out, Rusty. Play out your pain._


	7. Chapter 7

_**You'll Know When You Have Kids Of Your Own**_

 _ **Chapt. 7**_

 _ **Let's See What Happens**_

After a long moment, she opened her eyes and handed the headphones back to her husband. "Damn, she's good."

Trent set them on the small table next to his favorite corner of the sofa, rubbing the sole of his wife's right foot. "Ani says that her dad taught her how to play."

"Mmmm." Daria switched foot positions and smiled softly as Trent began kneading the sole of her left foot. "Makes you wonder what _his_ playing's like."

Trent fell silent for a long time.

"You know, those kids sound great." He shook his head, almost imperceptibly, eyes focused past the walls of the room.

"They're too young," Daria said quietly. "Two more years of _high school,_ for crying out loud."

"I'm proud of Ani," Trent sighed. "But you're right. Hell, if the Spiral were that good at that age, we would have thoroughly screwed things up. No way would I have had the maturity to make the right choices for myself."

"A young group would have nailed that demographic. You guys would have been successful, made too much money too fast, and likely be in rehab by the time Jane and I would have graduated from High School."

Trent shook his head. "I'd have probably screwed her up in the process, hanging around with a bunch of idiot rockers with money and no brains."

"Maybe. But then she might have been a reason for you to _not_ screw up." Daria shifted herself upright, taking Trent's hand. "I think we agree. While Ani and the girls may have the _talent_ to make it soon, we need to pull parental rank here. Let them hone their skills, record them, do some low key releases. But we don't let them loose until they have the maturity to deal with it."

"We should get Emily's parents and Rusty's dad over here for a talk over dinner."

* * *

Rusty sat on the low wall in front of the school, waiting for Ani and Emily to finish up.

 _What am I doing? Already I've managed to piss off some of the kids I hang with. Just because I agreed to try playing with these girls, I think I'm better than them? I just want to play because it makes me feel better._

"They'll come around, Rusty."

"Jesus, you guys, make some noise before you scare the crap out of me." She shot an annoyed glance to the two girls now sitting alongside her.

Ani pulled an old Marble composition book out of her backpack. "Thought you might want to see some lyrics that might work with some of the stuff we've been working on."

Rusty looked at the dog-eared notebook. "You write this stuff?"

"Sort of." Ani looked a bit uncomfortable. " Well, yeah. But usually I don't let anybody read it, except people who will read _only what I say_ they can," she said, narrowing her eyes at Emily.

"Soorry," sighed Emily, holding her hands up. "You're a good writer. It was interesting stuff and I didn't notice that I had gone past the _Post-its_."

Ani pointed at the pink and yellow tabs sticking out of the edge of the notebook. "This stuff is personal and a lot of it is just plain embarrassing, so you can start at a yellow tab and stop at a pink one."

Rusty ran a fingertip over the tabs. "You want me to read this now?"

Ani nodded. "Just want your opinion as to whether or not we can work some of these into lyrics."

"She won't let you take it home, I can tell you that much," grinned Emily. "Too much good blackmail stuff in there."

Ani shot her a look. "Shut _up_." She pulled out an e-reader. "Rusty, if you have lyrics we can work with, let us take a look."

"This stuff doesn't rhyme," Rusty said after a moment. "My stuff doesn't either. I think rhyming kind of forces you to distort what you're trying to say, just so you can make yourself look clever."

Ani smiled. "So you _do_ write too. Good. Maybe when your friends hear your perspective and voice in our lyrics, they'll come around and listen."

Rusty glanced at Ani and turned back to the notebook on her lap. _Maybe. The ideas here are pretty good. The meter is kinda rough, but then so's my stuff. Never really thought about working poetry into lyrics, but why not? The phrasing adds another dimension, and what might sound a little forced read aloud can become something of a little riff when sung._

 _She thought about what Ani had just said. Everyone has their own take on things, an individual perspective that can't be exactly like anyone else's. Her own situation had put her on the outside, not meshing with most of the kids her age. She'd have been fine keeping to herself, but in a society, especially the one called High School, that was hard to do and sometimes just not smart. She had found companionship of a sort with the misfit crowd, but she still found herself restless. She had responsibilities that most kids her age didn't have._

 _And, according to Erik, she just thought too damn much._

 _Looking at the pages in front of her, she began to understand why she liked hanging out with Ani and Emily so much. Ani, especially, was a thinker too. Emily was different, in a way more like Ani's aunt Jane. She had the weirdest sense of humor, and seemed to tackle things from the opposite end. She just kinda glommed onto things whole, and then reduced it to an understanding. Just like that. Ani, like herself, took things in smaller pieces, and then reassembled them into a cognitive construct. They were more analytical, whereas Emily was more intuitive._

Rusty smiled as she handed back Ani's notebook. She would let her two friends read her stuff.

"I like it. Let's see what we can do.


	8. Chapter 8

_**You'll Know When You Have Kids Of Your Own**_

 _ **Chapter 8**_

 _ **Little Feet**_

"Hey, Sam."

"Daria!" the recording engineer grins, squinting at the video screen at the security desk. "You're looking good! I thought you were Ani for a second, but Trent told me she never has her hair a normal color these days. Where's the old man?"

"He should be back any minute." I press a key and the front security guard appears in a window. "He's cool, Steve. Hey, you want some coffee?"

"Only if you've got a pot on, Boss. Thanks."

I fill a thermal mug and add two sugars. "Ani, could you please take this down to Steve on your way out? Bring the mug back when you come home."

"Sure, Mom," grouses Ani, making a u-turn back to the kitchen.

"That's for Steve," I sigh. "You're too young to be drinking coffee that strong. It'll increase the possibility of chest hair at your age."

Ani's eyebrows fly up and she hesitates before swallowing it rather than spitting it back into the mug.

"Kidding."

"Oooooh, Mom!"

I hear the elevator chime, and a moment later comes a knock on the door.

"Hey, Sam, long time," smiles Ani as she lets him in and gives him a hug. She removes and tosses her shoe covers into the little tray near the rack, not wanting to deal with lacing and unlacing her Doc Martens. "Sorry, gotta catch up later. Bye, you guys."

Sam sets his carryon on the tiled entry floor, toeing off his shoes and pushing them against the others. "You know, taking your shoes off when you enter a home is really a pretty good idea."

"Blame Lori. I got in trouble at her parent's house in Hawaii when I tracked dirt in. It _is_ a good idea, makes it a lot easier to keep a place clean."

He grins, and nods in the direction Ani had gone. "She driving you nuts yet? She must be turning into a boy magnet."

I roll my eyes before I can catch myself. "I think the age- appropriate boys are kind of afraid of her. That leaves the age _in_ appropriate. Let's not go there."

Sam looks around, a wistful look on his face. "Trent is one lucky dude. Look at this place!"

"He worked hard for it, Sam."

He laughs. "That's not what I meant. He's lucky to have a good woman like you to keep his head screwed on straight and his feet on the ground. So many people that climb the music industry screw themselves over- pissing away a fortune and not knowing who really gives a damn about them. I mean, you guys have great kids, your own lable and studio, and real friends."

The door opens. Quinn and Annie step in, sample books and drawings in hand, with Trent in tow. Annie automatically removes her shoes, and Quinn follows suit. Trent simply steps out of his loosely laced, so-called shoes.

Annie scribbles on a corner of a rolled up drawing. "So I'd suggest that the common lounge be set up so that there are localized areas for interaction, but still allowing mixing among groups of people."

Trent nods. "So the lounge is triangular, with the studios arranged radially."

"And that insures that the walls won't be parallel, without wasting space. There are hallways separating each studio for isolation. Cable raceways, drum and vocal booths in the studio corners for the same reason."

Trent shakes his head appreciatively. "Annie, you're awesome. Bet _Chilltown Studios_ makes the trade journals on just its design."

"I hope so too. You guys really got lucky with this space," Annie smiles. "I remember when we did the initial renovation of the icehouse. The neighborhood still had its rough areas, but it really cleaned up."

"We were right on the edge, but there really was nowhere else for the urban refresh to go. Daria's boss back then was right about everything."

"Trent," I call, "Sam's here."

"Dude!" shouts Trent. The two friends embrace, exchanging the requisite male ritualistic fist-bumps I understand to be required by California law. "Hey, Quinn, Annie, this is Sam Heider, my new recording engineer."

"Hey," smiles Quinn. "You were the sound tech for Trent's first tour with Nimbus, right?"

"Good memory," grinned Sam. "And where did you find this beautiful lady?" He offers his hand to Annie, who smiles broadly and takes it.

"Annie's my best friend and business partner," Quinn said, holding up a roll of drawings. "She's a killer architect, and we're married, so hands off."

"Damn. Figures," laughed Sam. "Wait, what happened to Haroun?"

Quinn laughs as Annie swats her with an even bigger roll of drawings. "Stop that!" She turns to Sam. "We are NOT married."

* * *

"No more," Sam groans, placing his hand over his coffee cup. "This is really good but I'm gonna be wired as well as jet lagged."

"Sally started to roast this specially for Daria in a small batch every other day," smiles Trent. "Now it's the biggest seller. Great for all nighters. We'll have to have them supply the studio as well."

"Daria, you really pull a mean triple," Sam nods towards the vintage commercial espresso machine on the counter. "That old Faema takes skill."

"Thanks, but Jane's the real _Barista_ around here. She dragged it in after Sally replaced some of the older machines with superautomatics. She's got another one in her studio downstairs that she's tinkering with."

"I can help her out if she wants. I rebuild these commercial machines as a hobby."

Quinn smiles. "Uh oh. Matt better get off his ass. He might have some competition."

Annie made a note. "Add a serious coffee station. Hard plumbing, 220 volt power and drain for an espresso machine."

"We'll try to roll the machine into the budget," Quinn muses. "Give me a spec for something suitable."

"I've got a pretty nice old La Pavoni that I just finished up," Sam smiles. "It needs a good home, but it's a big four station machine. Needs about five feet of counter space total, since you need a good grinder and a big knockbox for the grounds."

Sam taps the drawings spread out on the dining table. "Annie, this is really awesome. I can't think of anything else to change, besides using the north stairwell as an echo line. You've done recording studios before, obviously."

"Thanks. Actually, _Chilltown_ is the first. Quinn and I just did a ton of research and visited a bunch of other recording studios. We also hired an acoustical structural consultant for the isolation details. We'll need your specs for the bass traps, surface acoustic and diffraction treatment so it can be rolled up in the initial budget."

Quinn sits back in her chair. "Larger movable panels and traps will be specified as articulated framed architectural details. We'll add the acoustic media and tune them up when we do the interior finishing."

Trent stood and stretched. "Wanna check out the building itself?"

* * *

Sam looks around as we exit the inner lobby, noting the heavy foot traffic on the pedestrian mall. We wander around, finally ending up in the Trattoria. After a short time, the hostess recognizes us and immediately seats us at a corner table with a wink. Normally I'd wait, but Sam looks exhausted.

For whatever reason I wind up in the very corner, between Trent and Sam. "These ground level retail spaces do a brisk business in gourmet coffee, vintage books and media, wood-fired pizza and high end bistro fare here," Trent explains. "Jane and her gallery partners are set up on the second floor pubic space, with exhibition walls and alcoves extending down into the first floor retail area for the more mainstream and affordable work."

"The revenue stream from retail covers most of the commercial mortgage," I explain. "Quinn and Annie's design consultancy and the income from the gallery make up the rest, as well as the utilities. That said, _Chilltown_ will have to pay its way. Otherwise, it can't be justified. It's not a hobby."

Trent nods. "This buildout is going to cost a bundle." He picks up a piece of the deep dish combo, eating it slowly. He settles back in the booth as I steal the olives off his pizza.

"You can always Ebay your underwear," I laugh. The funny thing is it actually sold when I listed a pair of his boxers as a prank. He hasn't been a touring musician for years now, but his fans were still out there.

"The existing suites aren't bad, Trent," Sam smiles and yawns, the coffee beginning to wear off. "I like that little analog setup in C."

Trent laughs. "That's Ani's workspace. She found that old Otari tape machine and learned how to maintain it."

"So Ani's into vintage tone? That's kinda weird for a kid these days." Sam smiles. "I saw that you had a nice Studer in the corner of Studio A for warming up tracks."

Trent leans back, hands behind his head. He smiles proudly. "Ani's got a great ear. She learned about analog tape with that Studer, but it's a pretty fussy machine and a bitch to maintain. When it's set up right, it's sweet. She wanted a tape recorder that was easier to keep running, researched it on the net and got it off Craigslist, along with some test tapes and instruments. The old guy that owned it was really happy that a young girl could appreciate the sound, and he spent a lot of time teaching her how to adjust and maintain it."

I smile and shake my head. "The guy was only asking a couple of hundred for it, with a case of good tape, manuals, spare heads and so on. It was a really good deal to start with, and he wound up _giving_ it to her. He wanted it to go to someone who could appreciate it."

"Yeah, it's her baby," grins Trent. "Don't touch it without asking her permission."

"That little board's hers too?"

"Mine. That's a vintage Trident. I paid through the nose for it," admitted Trent. "Although Daria bought me the first channel strip when we got married." He flashes me a little smile. "It was worth it. Those mic preamps are incredible with Coles ribbon microphones. Daria's tracks were all recorded through that board. And those compressors are real Teletronics LA2a's."

"A sweet basic rig. Original T4b plugins?"

 _Oh God._ "If you guys are gonna geek out on me, I've got better things to do." I lean over and give Sam a little hug. "Welcome to Boston." I smirk as I make Trent get up and move.

Trent watches me leaving with a quiet smile on his face.

I can still hear them as I pull on my coat.

"She's changed a lot," muses Sam. He punches Trent in the shoulder. "Lucky dog."

* * *

"Ani, breakfast is ready," I call down the hall. I don't bother with Jacob; he'll be sleeping till noon on a Saturday.

A few minutes later she appears in the kitchen and plops down on one of the stools at the counter.

"Dad around?" she asks, leaning forward.

"Client meeting, on video. Some place in Europe, so it was an early call."

She takes a sip of juice, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Can I tell you something?"

I pour coffee and join her at the counter.

"I met a really cute girl last night."

 _WHAT?_

"…I really, really, _really_ like her."

"I… I'm sure she's nice." _Crap. This might get complicated. I mean, I don't have a problem with her interest in another girl, but won't it make things harder for her? At this age…why did I not notice-what kind of mother…_

"I brought her home with me last night. Do you want to meet her?"

 _WHAT? She BROUGHT HER HOME?_ "God, Ani, you're only fifteen! How can you think to take on this kind of…"With that, she's off the stool and headed for her room down the hall _. Damn it to hell. I'd hoped that it would be at least a couple of years more before I had to deal with something like this. I know she's mature for her age, but this…this is ridiculous._

I hear her in the hall.

"Don't worry, my mom is cool. I'm sure she's gonna love you." They're getting closer. I facepalm, trying to calm myself. _Aside from the fact that she's only fifteen- well, hell, yeah, she's only fifteen, damn it. I guess I do have a problem with this, given how old-_

 _"Mom?"_

 _I sigh, turning to face her, ready to read them the riot act._

 _"Isn't she sweeet?"_

Ani's holding a small coal-black kitten. The little beast regards me with wide open, bright green eyes.

I stare, shocked, but infinitely relieved.

"One day, I hope you have a daughter with the same sense of humor that you have. I will _so_ laugh my ass off at you."

She gives me a smirk.

" _Meow?"_ The kitten attempts an all-out cute offensive.

"Ask your father," I mutter.

" _Meow!"_

"She's hungry."

"I hope she pooped in your shoes."

"I used the potting soil from the plant in my room and that pan under the kitchen sink. It's pretty amazing how something so cute can make something so nasty."

I sigh. "She looks old enough to be weaned. There's some tuna in the pantry. Use the water it's packed in and a little bit of the tuna itself, mix it with some of that leftover rice from the Chinese restaurant. Otherwise it might be too rich and upset her stomach. Just a little."

 _Fishy kitty puke?_

"No, wait. You go to the drugstore down the street and pick up some kitten food and some real cat litter."

"Got it."

"You're paying. Not a done deal until your dad agrees."

"Okay, Mom." She walks over and holds the kitten out to me.

"Oh, hell," I grumble, taking the little hairball.

* * *

 _Mehitabel_ bounds down the hallway, hearing Trent getting out of his chair and moving about. She waits along the side of the door, crouching down, tail flicking, shifting her weight slightly from side to side.

The door opens, and she springs, forepaws extended.

"What the hell?"

Trent reaches down, plucking the little cat off his sneaker, distracted by her heroic attempt to vanquish the wily and unspeakably evil sloppy shoelace knot _._ "Where did _you_ come from?" He lifts her to his eye level in one hand, little kitten feet dangling and making running motions like a cartoon.

"Go ask your daughter," I sigh. "I don't know where she found her. Your decision. I don't care one way or another."

A little smile flickers across my husband's face. He thrusts the kitten at me. "Get rid of it before Ani gets too attached. You know who's gonna wind up taking care of it."

"Awwww." I clap a hand over my mouth.

"Gotcha."

"Asshole."

"She is pretty cute," he smiles, not giving her to me and bringing her up to his face. She reaches out with a tiny paw and touches his cheek. "Can't have rats in the studio," he says to the cat, putting her on his shoulder. "They chew up mic cables."

My husband is such a pushover.

 _a/n: See the book The Lives and Times of Archy and Mehitabel. Mom has named your cat. Deal with it, Ani._


	9. Chapter 9

_**You'll Know When You Have Kids Of Your Own**_

 _ **Chapter 9**_

 ** _Drop Into a Groove_**

"Sam?" Trent called, hearing the muffled grunting as the recording engineer fiddled with one of the more vintage pieces in the effects rack.

"Yo," came the simple reply. "Got a ground loop somewhere. This old analog crap sounds great but it can get kinda temperamental." A bit of colorful cursing followed the sound of something being dropped. "Hey, boss, can you reach that can of contact cleaner under the console?"

"Studio B ready for tomorrow?" Trent yawned, handing the can over. "Steph likes that old RCA 77 for her vocals, and the condensers on the backing tracks."

"As she likes it," Sam grunted, cleaning up the last of the connectors in the signal path. "Didn't think it would work, but hell, it sounds great. Scooping the midbass on the backing tracks really gives the soundstage some depth, and that fat ribbon sound is sooo damn sexy." He squirmed back out from behind the rack. "Next suite we build we kick the wall out, or move the racks away from the recorders or something. I'm getting too old to be crawling around on the ground like this."

"Get old by yourself. You're not taking me with you, Sam," Trent laugh-coughed. "Just see that Steph gets what she asks for. She knows her shit."

The engineer settled back into his chair in front of the console. "Wasn't she one of your students? Like back in your old home town?"

Trent pulled up the notation for the next day's sessions. "My best one. I kept teaching her even after I moved here, even though she could have just worked with what she already had. She's something else. You know she was fifteen when she talked Daria into learning to play the guitar?"

"Bet she bounced a lot of her stuff off Daria," Sam grinned, shaking his head. "There's some pretty pithy stuff for somebody her age."

Trent nodded. "Her home life pretty much sucked." He studied a handwritten page on the screen. "You know, Jackson's gonna have some trouble with these changes. This is kinda her signature hook, and she usually lets the groove slide a bit here."

"Then you do it, boss. Jacko's pretty mellow, he'd be okay stepping back."

"Maybe I could get Daria to track this," mused Trent. "She hasn't seen Steph in a long time. I think they kinda worked this out together anyway."

"Your girl don't do nothin' she's not into," laughed Sam. "Good luck with that. Suit yourself, you're the producer."

"Daria's been working with Steph and her lyrics for years, ever since we moved away from Lawndale. She's kinda like Daria's adopted little sister. She insists on giving Daria credit as co-writer on a lot of her stuff."

"So you think you could get Daria to track? Didn't know she played electric."

Trent grinned. "She prefers acoustic, but she's not afraid of anything. Had a custom hollowbody Tele made for her, with a skinny neck and five strings. She put thirteens on it. Her hands are kinda small, but she's strong."

"Channeling Keith Richards? Didn't he play a five-string Tele?"

"For different reasons, but yeah. I plugged her into that jumpered Traynor head just to see what would happen. Power soak, twin twelve in the iso booth, dimed it. She was amazing."

Sam shook his head, grinning. "Those old Canadian amps are great, like an old Hiwatt on steroids. Maybe a little woolier, depending on how you set the tone stack." He laughed. "I'd have paid money to watch Daria rock out!"

"I kinda started in Grunge, but moved to my current sound because of her. You know, I had no shame at all, singing crap lyrics in front of her, until I realized that she was actually listening to it. I mean, I was like a kid playing with my dick. So I started to-"

He paused while Sam laughed his ass off. "Dude, Jane slipped me a CD of some Mystik Spiral stuff. I gotta say, Daria really must have had it bad for you to stick around and listen to that stuff."

Trent smiled, shaking his head. "Guess so. You know what they say, guys mature more slowly than girls."

* * *

"Come oooonnnnnn, pleeeeeese, Daria!" Stephanie whined, holding out the notation. "Not like I'm tying you to a chair and doing a makeover on you."

She had narrowed her eyes at the younger woman, the juvenile negotiating strategy getting under her skin from its sheer persistence. Stephanie had found her musical path years ago, not that long after graduating from high school. While fooling around with making music videos for fun, she discovered she had a synesthetic knack for creating visual analogs to music. That led to enrolling in a video program at Lawndale Community College, and then projects that went far in getting her into a serious community of working musicians.

But being young, and perhaps because of having little in the way of sound female parenting, she had had a rough time of it after awhile. If it wasn't for her friends Daria, Jane and Quinn- she had gotten herself in a bit of a mess, and it had taken Daria's Lawyer Mom to haul her ass out of the fire when she got busted with a bunch of losers for possession of a fairly large quantity of shit that someone had stuffed into her amp cabinet. Daria actually drove down to Lawndale to haul her butt back up to Boston, where she was put to work helping to build out Trent's new studio. She had learned some practical tradework from her dad, who was more than happy to agree to having her work off some of what she morally owed to Helen, even though the latter had taken on the work willingly and without expectation of payment.

Trent, Stephanie was quick to learn, was far from the laid back and semi-structured music teacher she remembered. He had achieved some prominence in the music world while Daria and the rest of the girls were working on their schooling, and he had eventually backed off the actual performing end to focus on producing. He'd taken on a shorter and more practically oriented educational path, concentrating on the business oxymoron of _creative management_. The actual nuts and bolts of recording and mixing he delegated when he could to a partner from his years on the stage, even though he himself was reasonably good at it. Sam, though, was phenomenal. The two of them understood each other, and worked well together.

Steph had agreed to spend a year helping out, but that soon extended itself as she began to find her place in the world. Her big sisters- that's how she saw Daria and the girls- would always make time to do what they could to help her. They were not that much older than she was, and they showed her what it took to stay on track- they worked their collective asses off. Talent was one thing, but Steph learned that it came with a responsibility to do something with it. At least, that's the way she read it.

Daria always made time to help her with lyrics, and her poetry, which for Steph was the ore that she would refine into her songs. Daria believed in her, and Stephanie took that to mean that she was worth something in this world.

Trent, too, was always there to help. After about two years, he began to actively push to get her noticed. She was ready, he had decided, and had quietly begun to pull her tracks together, spending countless hours mixing and getting her to retrack some of it. Before she knew what had happened, he'd gotten her a gig at a club, which was a bit tricky with the terms of her probation.

She began to attract attention, and a small label had expressed some interest in her material. Daria suspected that they were really after her songs, and stepped in as her de facto manager with Steph's pleading. As it turned out, Daria's instincts were right on the money. While they couldn't come to an agreement with the label, Trent agreed to act as her producer going forward.

Countless gigs later, she signed with a smaller label, but one that took her seriously as an artist, and finally moved to the West Coast the year Daria became pregnant with Ani.

But now, it was like she was returning to her center; in this obscure studio and home. Here, she had people that had believed in her, helped her, and been there for her when she needed it most.

The last fifteen years had been something of a journey for her. The West Coast scene was just different; it was in the way people interacted. There was a suppleness, a strange lubricity in interaction that resisted true connection that bothered her. It was fun, but in a junk food kind of way. Easy, but lacking in real nutrition.

Turning back to the moment, she stopped and regarded the petite, dark-haired woman who stood there with her arms crossed, leaning against the kitchen counter.

She lowered the sheaf of papers. "Will you at least look these over? You know I really value your opinion." A slight movement caught her eye.

"When did you get a cat?" Steph knelt down, and a little black cat approached, tail held high.

"That's Ani's cat, Mehitabel. Probably wondering where her dinner is."

Just then, a commotion at the door. Mehitabel shot out of the kitchen in a blur, mewling loudly. Indistinct voices, laughter, and then shoes being kicked off.

Three teenage girls walked in, one with flaming orange hair and the cat in her arms. Another, taller and with jet black hair,was teasing the cat and gently tapping her head with a fuzzy tympani mallet. The third seemed a little more distant, apparently still acclimating to her odd new situation here. She had a scuffed gig bag over her shoulder, obviously a guitarist, with her left hand fingernails filed down to the quick.

"Hi, Ani," Stephanie smiled. _Wow. She's as cute as her pictures…definitely a Lane, but with that Morgendorffer attitude. What was it, anyway?_

"Auntie Stephanie?" Ani handed Mehitabel over to Emily, and walked over and gave the older woman a hug. "Are you moving back here to Boston?"

"God," groaned the cat teaser. "You have the _coolest_ family."

Ani caught herself. "Sorry, Auntie Steph, the drummer girl is Emily, and the guitar player is Rusty."

Daria smirked from the kitchen. "Steph is a close family friend, Emily, but not actually an Aunt. Something we picked up from friends in Hawaii. Ani learned to call her elders other than Trent and I 'Auntie' and 'Uncle,' a term of respect and affection."

"Alright!" Steph fist-pumped. "Respect! I got promoted!"

"Eh," Ani grinned. "I do _like_ you, anyway." She hugged again. "So are you moving in too?"

"Yeah, I'm taking one of the apartments downstairs. I was gonna move in with you but your mom said you'd be a bad influence on me."

"True," Emily smiled. "She's a regular ANWAP."

"What?"

"Amazon Ninja Warrior Princess," smiled Rusty.

"Uh…what?"

"Long story," sighed Daria. "Short version is my daughter's not afraid to use those steel-toed boots in defense of youthful female virtue."

"Like mom, like daughter," smiled Steph.

"She got herself grounded big time, but I'm still proud of her."

* * *

Stephanie leaned in to the nearfield monitors, listening to a recording that the girls had made. "She's Ani's age, right? She _rocks."_

Sam nodded as he stopped the playback. "Pretty talented kid, but Ani says her old man is something else. He taught her."

"Sounds like he might be what I'm looking for. He a session player?"

"Trent's been working on him, trying to get him in the studio. Ya know, he'd mentioned something about maybe getting Daria to sit in, but I think she's kinda focusing on her upcoming book tour."

Stephanie sighed. "I know. She'd nail it. After all, it was kinda written with her. Trent's not sure about his regular session guy."

"He's thinkin' about how you like things. This guy Les, Rusty's dad, he's got a different style. Pretty raw, ya know?"

"If he taught that kid to play, I want to check him out." Stephanie leaned back into the chair, catching herself before she put her feet up on the vintage mixing console. She hadn't worked with Sam all that much, and it wouldn't be very smart to piss off the engineer before the first tracks were even laid.

"What kind of name is Rusty for a girl, anyway?" Stephanie wondered, settling for stretching her legs out under the console.

"I wondered the same thing. Ani says it's a moniker she wound up with because she seems to be able to fix anything mechanical, so she was always messing with old bikes and stuff. I kinda got her into tinkering with espresso machines, so she gets a little extra money doing light maintenance at the coffee place downstairs. Hell, she fixed Trent's old Echoplex tape echo machine."

"Huh. I remember when he first got it, back when I was his student in Lawndale. Never worked right, if I remember."

"Cantankerous piles of crap usually," laughed Sam. "But so sweet when they make up their minds to get off their asses and actually work."

"Sounds like some people I know," laughed Stephanie.


	10. Chapter 10

_**You'll Know When You Have Kids of Your Own**_

 _ **Chapt. 10**_

 _ **With a Little Help From My Friends**_

Les Michaelson put the old Telecaster down in a stand and stretched.

"Awesome track, Les," came the word from the control room. Sam, the engineer, flashed him a thumbs up from behind the glass. "Take five."

Pulling the headphones off, he glanced at his guitar again. His daughter was right, that Jacob kid knew his stuff. He wasn't so sure about letting a teenager monkey with his new old instrument, but the thing was affordable because it had been pretty much unplayable when he first saw it. He'd always wanted a vintage Tele, and this one was pretty much as vintage as they came. Most of the lacquer on the back belly area and where his forearm rested was pretty much scrubbed off. The fretboard was grooved and the frets were totally shot to hell. The back of the neck was worn down to bare maple, and the hardware was rusty and pitted.

But it sounded so damn good now.

"Does it play okay, Mister Michaelson?"

Les turned to face the kid standing alongside his daughter. Rusty handed him a cup of perfectly pulled espresso. _She learns fast, Sally had told him._ The girl dug her new after-school job as a barrista at the coffee joint downstairs, and she had kind of taken over the espresso machine in the studio.

"Those stainless steel frets are amazing, Jacob. You were right, the harder metal makes bending notes a hell of a lot easier. The setup is the best I've ever played."

"Glad you like it. Rusty said that you liked it a little high, like she does."

"How did you fix the neck pickup? Was there a loose wire or something?"

Jake hesitated, and then decided to 'fess up. "Umm- I swapped it out. The old one needs to be rewound. It's pretty corroded, and I'm pretty sure it's shorted in a couple of places. I saved it for you, because I didn't wanna screw up a '50's original pickup."

"Jake's being modest, Daddy," Rusty smiled. "He built that neck pickup from scratch and put the original cover on it so it'd match the rest of the finish. I think it sounds awesome."

"Naw, it's those heavy strings you guys like," Jake blushed. "That much steel above any pickup is gonna sound good."

"Bullshit," grinned Rusty, poking the boy in the side. "My Junior sounds way better after you rewound the pickup."

"Jacob, whatever you did, it plays and sounds better than I had hoped. Go ahead and do whatever you want with the old pickup. Keep it."

The boy beamed. "Thanks. I'll take it apart and see how Fender wound it. I'll rebuild it and put it back in your Tele so it's mostly original."

"Frets wear out, son. Thanks again."

Les watched as his daughter left with the boy. _Good kids, both of them. Rusty says they're just friends, so I'm gonna take her word on that._

Still, he had been watching Jacob with a bit more interest than usual, and he wasn't sure if he was reading into things a little.

 _Maybe from Rusty's side it's a good friendship, but from his end… I dunno._

 _Haven't had coffee this good in a long time. Some of those little places in…hell._

He took another sip and then set the saucer carefully on the floor behind his amp where it wasn't going to be kicked.

Jacob's father held the door for them as he stepped into the studio.

"Hey, Les." Trent greeted as he settled onto a chair. He leaned forward, something obviously on his mind.

Les had a bad feeling about this. _And things were starting to look up. Shit, I need this gig. I'm good at this._

After a moment, Trent looked him in the eye. "How're you doing?"

 _Whoa, don't panic. Let him talk before you jump down his throat. He's a good guy._ Les swallowed, willing himself to meet Trent's gaze.

"Something wrong?" Les managed evenly.

"Huh?" Trent looked a little nonplussed, and then recovered. "No. No, man, you're doing great. No shit, you're the best session player I've had in a long time."

Trent waited for Les to say something, and then went on.

"Look, Stephanie really likes your style. She just called me this morning from some meeting and asked me to talk to you. She wants you to tour with her."

 _What?_ Les had shuddered involuntarily at the word _tour._

After a moment, he shook his head slowly. "I dunno, Trent." He settled back in his chair, crossing his arms. "I really like working with you."

Trent grinned. "I know, man. And I'm not bullshitting you. It would be a drag for _Chilltown_ to lose you. Thing is, the money's way better than what I can do."

"It's not the money."

Trent nodded. "You worried about the stress and stuff? And how you'd handle it?"

"You know it, boss." _This gig works for me. For the first time since forever it's I job I can handle._

"Don't' call me that, Les," Trent snorted. "Makes me feel old as hell." He eyed the cup in Les' hand. "Like I want one of those, but I gotta cut back." He settled back in a chair, hands behind his head, thinking.

"Steph likes working with you for a number of reasons. Not just because of your playing, but because she has her own issues and kinda gets where you're coming from. It's not for me to talk about her, but let's just say that she's had a hard time keeping it together.

"Her crew's hand picked. Support staff, logistics, everybody that travels with her are straight. Not a party tour, not by any stretch. One of the crew is her therapist, who would be working with you as well." Trent closed his eyes for a moment, mentally slapping himself upside the head.

Les leaned forward, forearms resting on his legs, looking at the floor. Reaching down he settled the little cup into its saucer.

 _Sounds like she might be as fucked up as I am._ "How long?"

"Four months, give or take a couple weeks," Trent replied. "More money than you'd make with me in a couple of years. Maybe more."

"Money sounds good, but Rusty comes first." _That kid takes care of me more than I take care of her._

"Rusty can stay with us, Les. We've got the room." He held up his hand to stop Les, who seemed about to protest. "She's a good kid. She and the girls hang out after she finishes her job and do their homework and play. She's no trouble at all. In fact, she gets after Emily and Ani to clean up if they do anything in the kitchen. Daria likes having her around."

"So it's okay with her?"

"Steph asked her first. She looks up to Daria like a big sister." Trent grinned. "She made sure it was okay with Daria for Rusty to stay with us before she talked to me. Figured there was no way you'd agree to it unless your daughter was covered."

"Does Rusty know about this?"

"Not yet. Just Daria and I, and of course you. I'm sure my kids would be fine with it, but I didn't want to bring it up until I got your take on this."

"Let me think about it, Trent. I'll talk it over with Rusty as well." He fell silent, eyes focused elsewhere.

Trent waited a moment. _Something else is bugging him._

Les turned away and pulled off the notation and charts from the music stand in front of his chair, replacing it with the sheets for the next track. He shook his head slightly after a moment, and turned back to Trent. "Look, I know Rusty can take care of herself. But there is something I want to talk to you and Daria about."


	11. Chapter 11

_**You'll Know When You Have Kids of Your Own**_

 _ **Chapter 11**_

 _ **Crushed**_

 _Dammit to Hell._

Jake stopped the winding machine and decided to hang it up for the day. _Eight thousand turns of number 42 magnet wire, and the bobbin warps. I know to watch the wire tension, and I still manage to screw up three P90 bobbins. I'm pinching the wire a hair too tight and forcing the bobbin flanges apart._

He glared at the ruined pickup coils. The damn coil forms were fitting too tightly into the covers, so that kind of warping meant that he wouldn't be able to assemble the parts. He'd hoped that the thinner bobbin sides would let him pack more wire on, maybe another couple thousand turns. He was sure that the bigger pickup coil, along with the slightly stronger magnets, would give Rusty's guitar a bit more grind and grit.

That wire was a total loss. It was finer than hair, which meant that it took very little handling to break. Having already spooled it onto a coil bobbin meant that he'd have to wind it back onto an empty feed spool, and that much tension on that ultra fragile copper strand was just not trustworthy.

He put the big spool of wire up in the cabinet, and made sure the soldering iron was off.

He considered finishing up the neck carving on that new bass he was making for Ani's birthday, but the way things were going he'd screw that up too. Since it was a neckthru design, with no neck and body joint, he'd have to start over if he made a mistake.

Ani was a small girl, so he had designed the bass to better fit her size. He had gone all out on the woods- spalted maple drop top on ultra light swamp ash wings, a purpleheart and rock maple twin-trussrod fretless neck, cocobolo fingerboard. He'd seen photos of that cool instrument called a Hyperbass.1 It had an ultradeep cut on the lower body, allowing a huge 3-octave range on each string, as well as an amazing tuning system that allowed pitch changes on the fly. It had a cutting edge, custom pickup system. It also had a twelve thousand dollar price tag.

It was way beyond his capabilities as a teenage hack builder to even come close, but it had inspired a few ideas he'd thought he might manage to pull off. A three octave string range, short scale, five string fretless in a light and compact instrument that Ani could rip on. It would be tuned high for a bass, allowing for more melodic lines. Ani had recently discovered an effects box called a subharmonic bass synthesizer, which extended the low end of her sound. Jake figured that his new bass would give Ani more tuning options, and the synth box would thicken her tone. He had confidence that his sister could make it sound amazing.

It would be awesomely cool.

And if he were to be honest with himself, he was really doing it to try and impress Rusty.

Now, however, that had turned into a huge ball of shit.

She was getting pissed at him for avoiding her. She wanted to hang out, mess around making things, tinkering with stuff, like they'd always done.

Only now, she was living with them, and his parents, maybe even Ani, kinda sorta suspected or maybe even knew about his crush on Rusty.

Hell. Maybe it didn't matter. No way would she be interested. She was a year older than he was. She'd had a hard time of it with her dad's problems, no mother around, and damn little money. She was brilliant in her own way, and strong. She had to be strong to survive, to be the one who had to help hold her dad together at times, even when she was still a kid.

Not sure what the deal was with her mom. She never talked about her, and Rusty had made it pretty clear that it wasn't a subject to be discussed. He knew that she'd stayed with her when her father had been overseas, but beyond that, nothing.

And what a musician she was turning out to be. Sure, he could play, but Ani was the one that had truly inherited their parent's musical talents. Rusty could easily hold her own, playing with Ani and Emily; at times she seemed to be holding back so as not to outshine the other two.

He could never play at Rusty's level. His own inclinations were more like those of his Aunt Jane, in the visual and sculptural arts.

He had a sense of design, he knew that; he could build things with grace and precision. He'd always riff on mechanical things, the execution often lagging behind the ideas, but when he had spent the summer with Walt rebuilding his mother's beloved ukulele he learned what it meant to build well. The old luthier had shown him the incredible things his hands could accomplish- fingertips, when trained, could easily detect flaws and discontinuities a thousandth of an inch deep.

He had learned how to shape fine woods with the kind of craftsmanship and accuracy practiced by jewelers; his eyes had been sensitized to the proportion, luster and beauty found in fine musical instrument design. He loved building instruments- sometimes he'd get so into it that an entire evening would disappear while his fingers ran along the back of a neck being shaped- a bit too thick there; a little ripple along the edge; sanding out from coarse to ultra fine abrasives, then steel wool until the wood was like velvet under his fingertips.

He pulled Ani's bass down from the rack and laid it on the carpeted worktable. The headstock shape was still not quite right- the figure of the wood on the top was distorting the perceived contour. Pulling over the tray of parts, he pushed in the ultralight tuners into the holes he'd drilled that morning before leaving for school. Maybe if he switched to black hardware instead of that chrome…

He felt someone settle onto the other stool near his bench.

"What's going on with you?" Rusty cut to the chase. She never screwed around, she just went to the heart of the matter. "Do I have like bad feminine odor or something?"

He tried a casual smile. _Say it. You're perfect. Strong. Creative._

He let out an incoherent noise instead.

"Are you mad at me?"

"No." He picked up one of the ruined bobbins, and studied it.

"Then look at me, please."

She studied his face for a moment, and then reached out to take the bobbin out of his fingers. She put her hand down on his. "We're friends, right?"

"Of course." For some reason, he became aware of his own breathing, which had stopped being something that was done without thinking. Her eyes were a soft grey, kind of a pale blue, and a wisp of dark blonde strayed over the corner of an eyebrow.

"Don't 'of course' me. You've been avoiding me. Do you know how weird that feels? When a guy you really like-" She stopped.

"Oh. Damn." She slowly shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment. He noticed how the light grazed across her face, falling off into shadow along the bottom line of her jaw. She had a strong, yet still feminine line to her features that he wondered about. Was it really there, or was he reading it because of what he knew about her? He began to feel a little- fuzzy, for want of a better term.

It was like the air was different. _Breath, moron._ No, there was something different. Rusty didn't wear any perfume, except for the scent of her shampoo or soap or whatever. Still, there was something there, and he liked it.

"You know, you and Ani are really alike in some ways." A smile slowly appeared on her face. "She kind of got this way when she…"

He waited for her to elaborate, but she was just smiling quietly. He'd not seen that look on her face before. She wasn't one that smiled a lot, which made sense if you knew what her home life was like, the way she worried about her father.

He noticed the warmth of her hand on his. Her fingertips rested alongside his, and he could feel the scratchy calluses from the way she played her guitar. She hadn't moved to pull away. Instead, she seemed to be waiting.

 _Oh, the hell with it._

"Russ, if I were to ask if I could buy you a cup of coffee or something, what would you say?"

"You mean like downstairs at Sally's place?"

"Sure, I guess," he murmured.

She laughed. "Then I'd say you're being cheap because Sally won't charge you for anything." She squeezed his hand a little. "If what you're asking is what I would say if you asked me on a date, I wouldn't say no."

"Really?" _No. Freaking. Way._

"I like you, idiot. I'm not saying that I'll be your girlfriend but that's because I'm not really looking for something like that. With any guy, not right now. But if I were, I sure wouldn't be caught making out with a guy I happen to be kind of living with. Awkward, right?"

"Right." _What? I don't really get what she's saying._

"You don't get what I'm trying to say, do you?"

"No, to be honest."

"Well, at least you're an honest idiot. I'm saying let's see what happens. It's not every day that you can find somebody that kind of gets you. Our friendship is really important and I don't wanna fuck it up without a good reason. Get it?"

"No, not really."

She looked away for a moment, gathering her thoughts. "Look, this kind of thing can really mess up a friendship. If this dating thing doesn't work out, what happens then?"

"Then we stop." _Being friends? Somebody gets hurt, probably me. But I don't want her to get hurt either. Oh, hell._

"Just like that?"

 _Yeah. Good intentions and all that. Still, if you don't try, for sure nothing is going to happen. Mom told me about that thing that happened between her and Aunt Jane, and they eventually got through it. Dad even said that he wrote a song about them to kind of nudge them back together, but they had kind of figured it out on their own._

"Always risk in anything, right? Slow, see what happens? Keep it low key?"

"Slow. Subtle. Either of us has the option to back off, no hard feelings."

"Okay." He gave her a lopsided smile. "Coffee or something?"

"Cheapskate," she smiled. She slid off the stool. "Let's go. And afterwards, I'll show you how to fix that problem with those coil bobbins."

* * *

Sally gave them a smile and kept glancing over. The place was full, as usual, so the two had found a spot in the corner by the oldest of the Probat coffee roasters. The motor that turned the roaster drum had begun to squeak a little, and she smiled as Rusty sat her cup down on the small worktable and walked over to the machine. After a moment, she said something to Jake, who handed her a small hammer from the toolbox.

She watched as the girl wrapped her hand around the hammer head and pressed the end of the wooden handle against some kind of bracket attached to the motor. She leaned in and stuck a finger of the hand holding the hammer head into her ear, and moved the handle around onto slightly different spots on the bracket, apparently listening. After a moment, she stopped and spoke to Jake again, who handed her a can of grease and a wooden coffee stirrer. She fiddled with the machine for a minute, and finally gave the bracket a sharp rap with the wooden hammer handle. The squeak was gone.

The two went back to their conversation as if nothing had happened.

"I like that shape you used for the upper horn on Ani's bass," Rusty was saying. "She's always griping about the way her left boob gets smushed by the studio bass."

Jacob laughed. "She plays with the neck high, and doesn't like to pull her left arm back so much. Pulling the horn back and making it a little longer should give her more clearance, and making the back slightly concave near the bottom strap pin lets it wrap a little around her hip."

"So you're an expert on female anatomy," Rusty teased. "Kinda creepy, since Ani's your sister."

He shook his head, blushing slightly. He tried covering it a little with a chuckle.

"Anyway, it's got beautiful lines. Gonna use a clear finish on it?"

"Translucent stain to bring out the grain, and a thin wipe-on polyurethane coat."

"She'll love it. Her brother made it for her. How cool is that?"

Jacob felt an odd, little tickle deep inside. He couldn't hold back his smile.

 _1 The Hyperbass is made by Joe Zon of Zon Guitars, Redwood City, CA. Designed with and for Michael Manring, Amazing player and bass._


	12. Chapter 12

_**You'll Know When You Have Kids of Your Own**_

 _ **Chapter 12**_

 _ **What Might Have Been**_

Bob Coleman smiled as he slowly made his way to the kitchen door. Opening it, he saw Rusty along with two other girls her age and a boy, who was pushing a hand truck loaded down with some equipment.

"Rusty," he said fondly, "Good to see you. I was afraid you'd forgotten about me."

"No way, BC," the girl laughed. "These are my friends, Ani, Emily and Jake," she grinned. "They were dumb enough to help me out."

A moment later, an older man and another teen boy appeared, with a folding pushcart, laden down with five gallon pails and painter's dropcloths. He smiled, and stepped up to offer Bob a hand.

"I'm Ani and Jake's uncle," he explained. "Name's Matt Robertson, and that's my son Nicky. I'm just hauling this stuff for them and getting them started. Can't stay long, got another job waiting."

Bob felt a firm grip and hands not a stranger to physical work. "I'm still not getting what's going on," he admitted.

"My Dad said you were talking about painting the place," Rusty explained. "He sent me money to buy paint for you, and we're the slave labor."

"Wait a minute, Les didn't have to-"

"He's got the money, BC. He's doing good on the road. He and I both appreciate what you've done for us, so we wanted to say thanks this way." She indicated the teens behind her struggling into painter's coveralls. "They're kinda collateral damage."

"I'll say," laughed Emily. "It's a lot of work being your friend, Michaelson."

Matt pointed at the pails of paint. "That stuff is spec grade, the kind they use on schools and commercial properties. It'll last twice as long as regular house paint, and it didn't cost Rusty's dad extra. I bought it for him off a friend of mine who's a commercial builder when a client changed their mind about the color on a project. I had it tinted to match your existing house color, since Rusty said you'd be okay with that."

"I had Mister Robertson drive by to check out the color," Rusty admitted. "Kind of wanted it to be a surprise."

"The kids will power wash, caulk and tape today," Matt explained. "Nicky will handle the power painter tomorrow morning. Today they're doing all the time consuming stuff. Once the surface is prepped, and the windows taped, the actual painting will take only a few hours."

"The windows are pretty new, Dad," Nicky reported, uncoiling the pressure washer hoses. "Only need to be masked off."

"Had them put in a few years back, when the utility company was offering a rebate for double-paned windows," Bob explained.

"Okay, that makes things a lot simpler," Matt nodded. "Jake, let's get you and Nicky started with the washer. The girls can move stuff out of the way, and apply the spot cleaners with those spray bottles. By the time you boys all get around the house and break for lunch, it'll be dry enough for you guys to start caulking the gaps you find, and masking and taping the windows, light fixtures, and all that." He handed his niece a screwdriver. "Ani, take the house numbers off and put them somewhere they won't get lost. When you have a chance, wirebrush them off and spray them with that can of satin black paint. They'll be dry by tomorrow, so we can put them back on after the house paint dries."

"Nicky, first thing I want you to do after the power wash is to spray paint the exterior light fixtures. Take off what comes off, mask the glass and paint. Tomorrow, I want you to tape and mask the fixtures before we shoot the house paint."

* * *

"I really appreciate you kids doing this," Bob smiled as he paid the pizza delivery girl.

"Not at all," laughed Ani. "It's going pretty fast with Nicky bossing us around."

"Hey, Nicky's the only one here that knows how this stuff works," Emily defended, earning a grin around a mouthful of pizza from Nicky.

"Jeez, don't get all bent about it," Ani shot back. "Just giving my cuz a hard time." She wrinkled her nose. "Hey, guys, you're supposed to breath air, not pizza."

"Hungry," grunted Jake.

"Oink," nodded Rusty, giving him a playful poke in the belly.

* * *

Bob handed Rusty her camera. "Nice shot of a good bunch of kids," he smiled, before turning to go back inside. He'd missed his usual nap, helping out where he could.

Rusty studied the image on the screen. It hadn't been that long ago that these kids were just faces that she kind of recognized in school, and now she could call them her friends without hesitation. Not that long ago she would have been reluctant to have them know where she lived, sharing a little cottage with her father in the back of some old guy's run down house. Especially these kids, who lived in a much nicer neighborhood and had way nicer stuff than she did.

The parents of her friends were pretty cool. They didn't make her feel like a poor person. Ani and Jake's mom had pulled her aside one night after dinner and had come out and told her that she honestly admired her, that she thought she had remarkable strength of character for such a young woman. Daria Lane, the famous writer, had made it clear to Rusty that she had her respect.

Sitting on the porch of the tiny cottage, after a long day of work, she looked around. Yeah. She didn't have anything to be ashamed of. She had her self-respect, and despite the ups and downs of her life so far, she had her honor. Her friends weren't superficial; she had thought that it was just Jake that gave her more credit than she felt she was due, but it turned out they all did. She might be poor compared to her friends, but they liked her for who she was and not what she owned.

She had friends that wouldn't take no for an answer. She was ready to paint BC's house by herself, even if it took a month of whatever spare time she had. Instead, they had thrown their lot in with her. Ani and Emily declared that there was no way she was getting out of practice that easy, and Jake had gotten on her case about her even thinking that he might be too busy to help. Rusty had a feeling that Nicky would have been willing without Emily dragooning him into it.

The teens were relaxing, having all they needed to do prior to painting tomorrow; Nicky's dad would be by to pick them up after installing whatever it was he and Nicky's mom had been making for that new building downtown.

She looked over at Jake. He was looking over her dad's old guitar, sighting down its neck, tapping on the top. She knew what he was thinking, and smiled. The guitar would be coming back to Jake's workbench with them, and there was nothing she could do about him spending more time on it than it was worth.

The knot inside that had kept telling her to be real was beginning to loosen just a bit. He'd been careful not to push; they were taking it very slow. She knew that they were young, probably too young to be in a serious relationship. He'd only turned fifteen in the fall, and she'd had her sixteenth birthday not much later than that. Still, he wasn't like any other guy she'd met.

It was confusing to her. She'd be lying to herself if she didn't admit that Jake was her best friend. He just _got_ her, and she herself could pretty much finish his sentences in her head, most of the time. Sometimes he surprised her, but he rarely disappointed her.

She lay down on the porch, more than pleased with the day's work they'd just put in. Nicky said that the actual painting would go much faster than cleaning up would, thanks to the commercial power painting rig that his dad had borrowed from one of his contractor friends. He'd be the one running the paint gun, and the rest of the crew would be making sure the paint would go on the house and not on the lawn and the shrubbery around the front. The girls had spent a couple of hour pruning the plants so that they were clear of the walls.

"Hey, our ride's here," Ani called out. "Get up, you two."

Rusty opened her eyes. _When did I take hold of his hand?_

* * *

 _Robert Coleman was tired, but sleep eluded him. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed having Rusty around. It was outright lonely around here, what with Les on the road touring with that band, and Rusty temporarily moved in with Les' boss's family._

 _She was a good girl. Took care of her father, and, truth be told, him as well. The girl checked up on him, cut his lawn, changed his light bulbs, and a million other things without his asking._

 _Good kid._

 _Wonder how Mike and…Elaine… and…_

 _He sighed. They were better off without him._

 _He had no excuse for what had happened. Carla had every right to take off with the kids before he'd done any more damage. It would have been better if he had died in 'Nam, would have been so much simpler._

 _It didn't matter. He was dead to them. The urge to wonder what might have been rose like bile in the back of his throat, and he forced it down. He had not let himself tear up in mourning for more than forty –five years and he was not about to start now. He had cleaved away his right to be a part of their lives. That was the way it was then, and nothing had changed._

 _God, he needed a drink. Maybe something stronger._

 _But no, his damn liver couldn't take any more abuse. The Doc made that crystal clear._

 _He got out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. Wrestling off the cap, he shook the last two Ambien tablets out of the bottle and dry swallowed them._

 _Forcing the thoughts of his own ruined life away, he lay back on his bed and remembered watching Rusty and her friend- what was his name? Jacob?_

 _That had made him smile. Teenagers, still too young to have made a mess of things, with plenty of opportunities for that later. Hopefully, much later, when they would have the experience and wisdom to make better choices than he ever did._

 _Clearly the boy could see what a treasure Rusty was. He better, although Bob doubted that he could do much in the way of defending the girl. She was a scrapper, that one. She took care of herself._

* * *

Jake shut off the paint pump and lifted it up onto the cart. It was amazing how quickly this was going; Nicky was already halfway around the house.

Rusty met him with the heavy extension cord and helped him move the machine onto level ground. Ani and Emily were carefully pulling off the cloth off the shrubs, taking care not to let the fabric touch the freshly painted wall.

Nicky waited impatiently, paint wand at the ready. Jake lowered the hose into the new bucket of paint and turned the pump on. Emily had already gotten into position with the overspray shield on the pole, keeping the paint from hitting the edge of the roof.

"Jeez, it's hard keeping up with him," Rusty laughed.

"Paint's his thing," Jake grinned. "Usually not on this scale, though."

By the time they took a break for lunch, the paint was on the house, and Nicky had already flushed and cleaned the painting rig. The only big thing left was to strip the masking and tape off, which had to wait until the paint had begun to set.

Emily and Ani were discovering just how quickly that happened and were busy trying to brush flecks of dried paint out of their hair. Rusty had more sense than that; she'd figured out what the hoods on the coveralls were for. By the time she'd caught up with the other two girls, Emily's black hair looked like she had a terminal case of dandruff.

Jake felt good about helping Rusty. Not just because she was more than his best friend, but simply because it seemed like a good thing to be doing. The old man didn't seem like he had a lot of money stashed away; the house was in decent basic shape, what with the newer windows and what looked like a good roof. Still, when they had gone inside for lunch, it was clear that he lived frugally. The place was clean, but the furnishings had seen better times.

Bob had a computer, even older than the one Walt had in his workshop. Jake had seen what looked like a phone line running to it- he had heard of dial-up connections, and maybe that was what it was. It even had an old style monitor, one of those humongous things that you'd sometimes see in old movies. His TV wasn't much newer, and he even had one of those old VCR things with the flashing 12:00 sitting next to it.

The weird thing was that there was almost nothing on the walls. No artwork, no photos, nothing. There were a few small photos on the mantelpiece, and a few snapshots of Rusty and her dad stuck to the refrigerator.

It wasn't anything like he'd seen before.

It was a lonely place. He couldn't imagine living there.

As they finished cleaning and putting things away, it seemed as though just having them around had cheered him up, even if just a little.


End file.
